


Flowery Language

by rosy_cheekJohn22



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Author doesn't know what he is doing, Daddy Issues, Death, Depression, Dissociation, Flowers, M/M, Mentions of Death, Metaphors, Multi, PTSD John, Panic Attacks, but its okay, hoo boy lots of em, i am definitely going to be adding tags as I go, i have no idea what im doing, i realize i forgot to mention this, i think, i wrote most of this at 2am, like they come into play more later in the story, lots of mental illness badies, lots of mental illness stuff, lots of those, mentions of bad past, morbid humor sometimes, most characters arent major ones, not major character death, please just read this, the author is a dumb, there is no updating schedule set up, there’s LOTS of ptsd john, this is a modern au, very self indulgent, ye
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2018-09-28 00:13:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10058489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosy_cheekJohn22/pseuds/rosy_cheekJohn22
Summary: Iknowthetitleischeesyok (also to be noted, I will be going back to older chapters all throughout to fix and adjust some things since I did start this a while back and I hope I've improved and can improve what I have written in the past for this)Flowers hadn’t come back into your life until you met Alexander Hamilton on Frances's sixth birthday at the park. Flowers lit up your bland world once again, an explosion of roses and daffodils, balsam and mallow flooding your vision. Suddenly hope was back, color spread to the edges of the earth. A blue iris bloomed inside your chest, a new hope.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what i am doing, this is my first time posting a story here. Yeah. Well, uh, here. I wrote this a few weeks ago but decided to post it now so please read this. Comments are appreciated but not necessary, feedback would be encouraged though because, again, i have no idea what the hell i am doing. 
> 
> English isnt my native primary whatever language, I am trying my best here and re-reading everything/checking/reviewing everything at least four times before I post it. I apologise in advance for any incorrect things. 
> 
> Thanks

You have always loved flowers, in all your years of living they were there. Flowers followed you throughout your childhood, surrounding the house you grew up in, and littering all of your family’s land. Hawthorn and tiger lilies were in every corner in the house, frangipanis filled your mother’s beautiful garden. Flowers filled the pages of your sketchbook, took up space on your walls through paintings and posters from books. 

Black roses and red primroses were all around you at your mother’s funeral and followed you and your brothers to Europe. 

Yellow acacias, bellflowers and coriander bloomed late at night in Geneva, Switzerland when you and Francis Kinloch would sneak around to meet up in the dead of night. They became brighter and showed more often the more he would kiss you. They were there when you two became more open with your love. They were there on dates with Francis and showed up on your doorstep every morning with a note attached.

Nightshade mocked you when your little brother, James, died and those dreadful flowers made another appearance at another funeral. They followed you and your mourning everywhere, cypress and endives as far as the eye can see.

Striped carnations and rue filled your apartment when Francis left you, geraniums seemed to push you towards Martha Manning. 

They were there when she told you about the baby she was having, they decorated tables at the wedding the two of you quickly put together. They were there when you left for New York, white poppies and a pear blossom came in the mail with a picture of your new daughter, Frances Eleanor. Sweet pea flowers were there when Martha died and Frances came to live with you, she was only three, they showed up yet again at yet another funeral. 

They made their last appearance however, when you came out to your father, an explosion of petunias and orange lilies and yellow carnations. 

Subsequently, the world seemed to lose that last bit of color flowers gave them, everything wilted and died. You didn’t see many flowers after that, didn’t plant them anymore or draw them. Frances stopped wearing lilacs and lilies in her hair, stopped bringing flowers home from her school’s garden. 

The one constant in your life, the one thing that was there from the start and never left, there when things seemed dark and hopeless, was suddenly gone. No more did their petals litter the wood floors of the apartment. No more did their smell fill your nose when you got home with Frances. The color they once added to your bleak world was gone, vanished. 

It wasn’t until Frances turned six that flowers came back into your life, just as sudden as they had left and more vibrant than ever. They were everywhere, surrounding you wherever you went. Frances smiled more, put flowers in her hair again and painted pictures with you. 

Flowers hadn’t come back into your life until you met Alexander Hamilton on Frances's sixth birthday at the park. Flowers lit up your bland world once again, an explosion of roses and daffodils, balsam and mallow flooding your vision. Suddenly hope was back, color spread to the edges of the earth. A blue iris bloomed inside your chest, a new hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is just a prologue? yeah


	2. Blue Irises (official chapter one)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Alexander at a birthday party, Frances is a relatable six year old and flowers are everywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John has depression and zones out a lot (dissassociation i think its spelled) and he has slight ptsd from growing up the way he did and experiencing what he has, that will be elaborated on more in later chapters tho. But if you are sesitive to depression and dissassociation and just blanking out at times, this whole fanfiction might be very very diffucult for you to read.

The park was quiet today, which was normal for January, yet somewhat odd seeing as how it was your daughter’s birthday. You sat at a wooden table, keeping the plates weighed down and half-heartedly watching the kids play on a tree. They were mostly lying on different branches, picking at the leaves and playing with insects.

There was a slight wind, and it made you shiver a little under your light sweater. A leaf or two blew past, another almost hitting you and you let out a sigh. Before, you probably would’ve laughed it off, make a joke about how nature must love you so much even leaves hit on you. But now, it just annoyed you. The leaves were no longer the bright beautiful green, but now a dull muted color. It seemed to exist to taunt you, showing up everywhere and blowing all around you. One lands in your hair and you probably would have ripped it out had you had the energy to do so.

With a groan, you rest your head on the table, bemoaning your sad existence. You are miserable, or at least you want to be. Your boyfriend left you, Frances’s mom died, your father is mad at you, and you’re a single father stuck being the only adult at a six year old’s party.

You love your daughter, she is honestly the reason you can wake up and get things done, even if it isn’t always the best job. She’s kind and smart, a wonderful kid, really. Everyone loves her and you want to be happy for her, you do. And yet seeing her help one of her friends onto a tree branch only makes a dull pain bloom in your chest. She’s an amazing kid, she deserves a better father than you. A better, happier family who can cook and hold a job for a long time and-

Your thoughts are stopped when you hear Frances call you.

“Papa! Papa, Theodosia’s oncle is here, she is going home.” Her voice at first sounds too loud, you had been so immersed in your thoughts that you seemed to have zoned out too much. Her big eyes are looking at you, waiting for you to say something, be an adult. It takes you a second or two to process this.

“Ah, um yes, I’ll go and meet him, make sure she finds him safe.” You stumble through that simple sentence, mentally smacking your forehead. Your six year old daughter is more articulate than you.

“C’mon , Papa, over here!” Her tiny hand is pulling you away from the table and you have to bend so she can properly drag you along. She’s so much smaller than you, and yet she seems to be bursting with energy. You wish you were like that again, excited and able to move freely without your six year old daughter there to drag you around like one of her stuffed animals.

She brings you to the tree where a man with red hair is bent down talking to Theodosia excitedly. He’s all smiles and hand gestures, bright eyes and freckles spread all throughout his face like stars in the sky. You wanted to look at him more, but then Frances has you standing in front of him and he’s standing up, knees cracking and hand extending.

“Hi, I’m Alexander, Theo’s uncle. Her dad sent me to pick her up.” His voice is smooth and clear at the same time, making everything feel lighter and look brighter than before. You never noticed the pink in his shirt until now and it’s a beautiful color.

“John, it’s nice to meet you, Alexander. Theodosia is such a good kid, Frances chose a good friend in her.” You don;t think before speaking, your mind too foggy, hazy thoughts of the details in how Alexander looks like. You would love to draw him, paint his picture with watercolor. His freckles would look so good, his hair is a beautiful auburn that you’d love to paint flowers into. Maye blue irises to match his eyes.

Frances pulls on your hand and you snap out of your daydream, turning your attention back to Alexander. He’s talking again.

“...so much fun. Theo just loved the party, by the way, too much fun probably by the looks of the dirt on her skirt. Maybe the two of them can hang out sometimes, get together for a playdate. Kids still do that, right?” His voice lilts at the end, the question seeming to slide off his tongue like butter in a pan.

 _Playdate?_   Maybe if you say yes, you could see him again sometime. You want to see him again sometime.

“Yeah, sure. Definitely, we’ll have to get together one day and plan one.” You glance down at Frances, the thought having popped into your head that you should’ve probably made sure she would be okay with this. She’s grinning, missing teeth and all. It’s almost as though the stars in Alexander’s freckles have moved to your daughter’s eyes. She and Theodosia must be close, you’ll need to pay more attention to that.

“Hey, that’s great. It was nice meeting you, John. Goodbye, until we meet again.” His smile is dazzling and it’s with that final action that seems to set colors off in the world. The trees seem greener, the grass more alive. You could hear the birds flying overhead and the kids still playing a few feet away. His eyes are so much brighter, his hair a burst of red lilies and chrysanthemums. All this color, it’s almost overwhelming. The sudden shift from muted colors and bleak skies, plants that seemed to have lost their liveliness, now bright greens and purples and reds.

You smile back at him, and though it’s not as beautiful and sweet as his, it has more life than you’ve had in three years.

“Adieu, Alexander.” You hadn’t thought it possible, but his smile widen and his eye quirked up. The look suited his face so well, and the thought of drawing him rears it’s head again.

“Adieu.” And with that, he walks off, Theodosia’s hand in his. She’s saying something to him but you aren’t paying attention, going over that interaction with Alexander in your head. Frances ran off to play with those still here, leaving you to your thoughts again.

 

* * *

 

After everyone’s parents or family came to pick them up and you and Frances have gone home, it’s almost seven. You send her off to shower and get ready for bed, she can’t stay up too late even if it _is_ her birthday. She pouts but goes off anyways, stopping to get her clothes before scampering off to the bathroom.

You aimlessly walk to your room, putting away your sweater and sliding your shoes underneath your bed. You’ll make a mental note to put them away later, but for now, you lay back onto your bed, legs hanging over the edge and thoughts of Alexander still lingering in your head.   
As dumb as it might sound, you almost feel more excited about Frances’s future playdate than she probably is.


	3. Flax and Lilac

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chance meeting, some might call it FATE?????? *cough thats what the title means in flower cough*
> 
> John dwells on some thoughts and this is what mornings are sometimes like for John and Frances, until something happens. Don't worry, nothing bad, just chance meetings mayhaps????

It has been a few days since meeting Alexander and you find yourself smiling more than you have in months. It has been days and you are already entertaining the thought of the two of you going somewhere together, or holding hands. Maybe just watching a movie here on the couch, the lights dimmed out and those chocolates frances made you buy her that you now adore with your entire being.

“Coucou Papa!” Frances is climbing onto your bed, laying herself down on top of your legs and giggling. “Papa papa papa! Wake up! Morning time!”

You adore Frances, she’s your only daughter, a precious ray of sunlight who brightens every room she bounces into. She is amazing and you love her, but at this moment you want nothing more than to have her go back to bed and let you sleep and dream. How she is even this energetic at five in the morning on a Monday is beyond you. Why she’s so excited this morning, a monday like every other monday, is, again, beyond your level of comprehension. The sun isn’t up, and yet your daughter is rolling on your bed and pushing your legs in an attempt to get you up.

_It’s too early for this…_

“Papa! Come on please up! Up!” You could hear the pout in her voice and it reminds you of the other day when she pouted when you told her to bathe before bed. It had been her birthday and the two of you had just got home and she was grumpy that you were making her shower on her birthday. Her birthday, you met him at her party, Theodosia’s uncle. You had met him that day and saw the world in color again, flowers coming to life, their colors blooming all over, even in late January.

For a moment, you shut your eyes lay back, you see lilacs, an ocean of them it looks like, and you’re floating. And then he’s there, red hair ablaze in a sea of blues and purples, eyes sparkling and standing out on his pale, freckled face, almost blending in with the ocean of blues and that hint of yellow. The contrasting colors look beautiful and you’re not sure if it’s just him or the way everything just seems to look so right together.  

For what feels like the sixth time, Frances kicks your leg and you shoot up, sitting upright in bed and glaring at her. She’s grinning, the gaps from missing teeth showing and her dimples stand out, even more, what with how wide her grin is.

“We don’t kick, calme toi, it’s too early to be like this, the school doesn’t start till three hours, precious. Hush now, what are you up so early for sweetheart? Papa is tired.” You want to sound stern, even if it’s a little mad, you try to scold her but your voice is soft, albeit tired, no trace of anger or irritation. If anything, there’s endearment, you remember getting up early when you were younger, all bright eyed and with so much excitement. You can’t be mad at her for being excited, even at such ungodly hours on a day you don’t quite like that much.

“Papa, it’s school today, and I have all my work done and you said if I did I can get waffles.” She probably doesn't need anything sweet today, especially this early in the morning. She has a point though, you _did_ promise her waffles some days ago.

She’s giving you this pouting look, her little lips poking out and her big hazel eyes wider than usual. You realize you haven’t responded or even acknowledged the whole waffle promise, and she is waiting for you to say something. You know from experience that six-year-olds don't like to wait and soon she’ll probably start kicking again. And then you’ll get mad and have to punish her by doing something adult or responsible like a good parent. _Are you a good parent?_ You like to think you are, you try your best for her. Frances is good and you want her to have a good life, a good childhood. You want to be a good parent for her, though sometimes you feel like you aren't enough, aren't good for her.

A small hand is awkwardly laid on your cheek and you use it to ground yourself, pull yourself out of the haze of thoughts and into the present. You’re still in bed, Frances leaning over you and staring at you, worried but anxious for you to bring her out for waffles. You give her a small smile and the worry seems to drain out of her all at once.

“Okay, okay, c’mon, precious, let’s get you ready for waffles.” Your voice is still a little heavy with sleep but she gets the message enough to jump off the bed and run for her room.

You smile at the sound her little feet make on the wood floors. It reminds you a little of your brothers and sisters back home when you’d get back from school and they’d all just come running down the stairs and halls just to jump on you and hug you, each one bombarding you with a million questions about classes. Harry would just roll his eyes, trailing behind you, muttering about how he goes to school too but no one asks him questions, Martha would hit his arm and tell him to lighten up a little, James and Mary Eleanor are just excited.

Your head is in the clouds, a foggy mess of old memories and mixed feelings about your past as you aimlessly walk to Frances’s room. You aren’t really thinking as you help her button her school shirt, get her skirt down from the hanger and find her shoes. You don’t really think through helping her get ready, don’t think much as you do her hair or tell her to brush her teeth. Your voice doesn’t sound like yours when you say something but Frances doesn’t pick up on it.

Putting on your own clothes and tying up your own hair, brushing your teeth and putting on shoes seems to pass in a blur, a haze of excited calls from an overactive Frances and blurry memories bouncing around in your head.

You vaguely process Frances pulling you out the door and into the apartment hallway. You blink hard and try and focus on her little fingers curling around three of yours, focus on her excites chatter and the cold keys she stuffed in your hands. Taking a deep breath, you again ground yourself, trying to bring yourself back down from the haze you seemed trapped in. Twice in one day, less than an hour apart isn’t a good sign. You’ll have to call Martha or Harry later, or maybe just call in sick today at work and stay at home. Maybe you’ll do that once you drop Frances off at school.

Speaking of Frances, she is nearly bouncing on her feet as you both ride the lift down, watching as the floor numbers pass over the doors. You let a small smile slide, filled with warmth and endearment at her youthful and childish excitement. When you reach the lobby, you can’t help but become a little excited as well, your smile growing as she takes your fingers in her hand and pulls you to the car garage.

You must have been distracted, making sure Frances wouldn’t bump into someone or trip that you weren’t looking out for yourself. He bumps into you and the both of you fall a little, Frances getting pulled back a little and almost falling on whoever you just ran into.

“Sorry, my bad I wasn’t looking.” Your hands are a little scraped but it’s not bad, just a slight sting from scratching the skin there on the sidewalk. Frances is pulling on your shirt once you stand, anxious to just get breakfast already before school starts. You finally look up to formally apologize to whoever you bumped into, feeling a little bad you were so distracted before.

He’s still on the floor and you bend to help him up, offering your hand and an only wincing a little when you pull him up. He smiles at you in thanks and your heart stops and speeds up at the same time. Alexander, you hadn't thought you would run into him again, much less in quite a literal way.

His eyes are shining and all you see is color.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and it starts!!
> 
> Por favor, please, comment or give a kudos or advice or what you think?
> 
> The updating for this will be a little all over the place, but i hope it will frequent as much as yall do


	4. Ranunculus and Marigold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations, waffles, hot chocolate and rain.
> 
> John and Alexander chat, Frances gets her waffles, and John's not doing okay. At least he's made a new friend hopefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning; PTSD (subtle kind of, but there), anxiety, depression, pregnancy mention 
> 
> Hi, so sorry it has taken me 11 days I think to update, life has not been kind to me as of late. no worries though, i am on spring break and determined to write, even if its late at night and i should be sleeping. Also, this chapter is like 2000 somethin words, that is a lot for me

“Thank you, it's John right,” he turns to smile at Frances, eyes shining brighter than the constellations that were sprayed across his cheeks, “Frances’s dad? It's nice seeing the two of you again, albeit less nice it's due to me bumping into you in the middle of a sidewalk at what, 5:50 something in the morning? What are you two doing up so early, though school doesn’t usually start till like seven?”

With every word that comes from his mouth, you feel brighter. The orange in your shirt feels like the sun’s rays and Frances’s hair is a soft, warm hazel like her mother’s. Thoughts of Martha start to creep up on you, the lingering thoughts of her last days and her funeral at the back of your head. They try to crawl their way forward but you look at Alexander and his dazzling smile, his smile that puts the sun and every other star in the sky to shame, and just like that the bad memories go away.

Your heart beats faster, the fog in your sleepy head clearing to focus on his rambling. His voice is nice to hear, his words clear to understand and smooth like honey and yet there's almost something hiding there. An accent? Perhaps.

“No problem, Alexander right? Frances here,” you mess with her hair, messing up her bangs and she sticks her tongue out at you, pushing your hand away so she could fix it, “Woke me up at the most ungodly hour to get waffles. She finished her work this weekend so I’m taking her out for waffles. That answers your question, now what are _you_ doing out so early?”

He laughs and there’s an explosion of color, everything gets brighter and more clear. There’s color everywhere and he is shining. His hair is a blaze of auburn with subtle yellow tones that make it seem warm and soft. His blue eyes are the prettiest irises you’ve ever seen and they remind you of your mother’s old garden.

“Ah, touche, you got me there. I’m just getting back from dropping some papers off at the firm I work at. Some big case my boss picked up for me had me staying late. Just finished for the night so I’m just on my way for a coffee, spend my day off relaxing maybe.” You could still hear his laugh and it seems to wake you up more than any coffee could. His laugh is intoxicating and infectious, the smile lingering at the edges of your mouth turning into a grin and then a chuckle. His face lifts when you chuckle and if that isn’t the most beautiful thing ever, you aren’t sure what true beauty is.

“Big case? So you’re a lawyer, if I am uh, assuming right?” You feel light talking to him, like a paeonia or dandelion. His eyes light up when you mention lawyer and he grins. God, you want to see that grin every day, just see him every day really. You’ve just met this man a day ago and he has you wanting to see his grin as much as possible.

“Yes, actually. You’re pretty observant, John. I like that. If you don’t mind my asking since you already know mine, what is your line of work?” He speaks with an intelligence and pride and you adore that about him. You adore his voice, his wit, his smarts, his manner of speaking and his eyes. You adore everything you have thus far learned about this man, though you feel there is an entire ocean of traits and quirks you’ve yet to learn about him. You have no doubt you’d adore them too, however unbeknownst to you they currently are.

You’re drifting off, thinking about him and everything you admire about him that Frances tugs your sleeve, bringing you back down from the clouds that seem to be made of Alexander, Alexander, and only Alexander.

“Papa, are we still getting a waffle. You promised me.” Frances speaks up, most likely bothered she’s been pushed aside so you can talk to what to her is a complete stranger. Her nose is scrunched and her eyes focused on yours. Her hand is still on your sleeve.

“Ah, yes, of course, Frances. Papa’s sorry, I got a little carried away,” You leaned down a little so she would know you’re speaking directly to her before standing up straight again, “My apologies, Alexander, but my daughter and I have to go. I promised her waffles before school. I’m sorry I have to end this conversation, it was my pleasure to talk to you again, though a little less it had to be because I bumped into you, heh.” Your voice gets higher towards the end and you let out a nervous chuckle before clearing your throat. You hope he doesn’t think you rude, God you hope he doesn’t hold this against you.

He smiles?

“It’s alright, I can understand that, no need to say sorry, my friend. A promise is a promise, right? I enjoyed our conversation too, however short it was cut. We should talk more though, it was really nice. Maybe we can exchange numbers, talk more through there, it _is_ the age of technology, yeah? I hope it’s not rude of me asking for this, I know most people don’t usually ask for a number on the second meeting but I’d hate to have to wait to talk to you again, John.” With every word that falls from his tongue, the words seeming to swirl about his tongue like water from a faucet, streaming and not stuttering, dazzle you. You’re enchanted and he is just amazing. You personally want nothing more than to drop everything just to talk to him more, but a promise _is_ a promise, just like as he said. You promised Frances waffles and so she’ll have them.

“Of course, it’s not rude at all,” You’re smile feels a mile wide, there are marigolds blooming in your chest, spreading to your cheeks. _Marigolds_ , the beauty and warmth of the sun, you think to yourself. Alexander reminds you of marigolds, his hair curls like it’s petals and even match too, his smile is brighter than the sun. He’s beautiful too, more beautiful than the sun for sure, his smile makes you feel warm like the sun.

_Marigolds, huh._

 

* * *

 

 

There was very little traffic, thank God. You only had to pause for one bus and got stuck at just two lights before finally making it to Waffle House. It started raining as you drove, water tapping on the roof of your car and sliding down the windows. Frances had her face pressed up against the window, watching each rain drop as they raced towards the car door and away from the sky.

She’s mesmerized, tracing the trails left behind on the other side, a look of bright-eyed captivation at the water. She’s always liked the rain, says it’s not bad like kids at school say and it’s pretty, good for flowers and playing in. You think she gets that from her mother, you’ve never liked the rain as much as her. Martha would sit at the window in London and watch the rain fall for hours, seemingly transfixed by the small droplets of water. You can remember how it was raining when she told you she was pregnant, it was the one time she paid more attention to something that wasn’t the rain, worried eyes trained on you as her voice shook. Her eyes were watery, just like the rain she so loved, voice stuttered like raindrops on a roof. She shook like trees in the wind, frightened at what your response would be. She probably never saw you connect the dots and get down on one knee, taking her hands and-

“Papa we’re here now.” Frances is tapping your shoulder, leaning over your seat so she can look at you. She looks so much like her mother.

“Sorry, baby girl, I got distracted. I was lookin’ at the rain and just got carried away. Now,” You open the door, and step out, reaching for her’s and holding it open, “Let’s run inside before we get soaked and your school clothes get ruined.”

She’s hopping out of the car and headed to the doors before you can lock the car. You look after her, a somber smile on your face as you watch her wait by the entrance, bouncing on her heels. You should probably go after her, you’re starting to get wet and get your clothes ruined.

“Allons-y, Papa!” She calls out for in the parking lot and you wave at her, motioning for her to relax and be patient. You don’t look at her as you run to the doors but you know she’s pouting and crossing her arms, frustrated she’s having to wait for you. You let out a small chuckle when you get to her and find she is, indeed, crossing her arms and pouting.

“S’il te plaît, be patient, Frances.” There’s humor in your voice, you honestly find her pouting cute and funny, hard to take seriously. She seems to think the opposite and just sits moodily on a bench inside.

You get the two of you a table and let her order for herself, a proud yet amused smile when she orders for herself and shows the waitress her coloring on the child's menu. You just get a coffee, not really all that hungry at the moment.

Frances is talking your ear off when your drinks come, she gets whipped cream from her hot chocolate on her nose and giggles, showing the waitress how funny she looks with it. Your waitress, Selena you learn, is a saint, laughing with Frances and looking interested. She has freckles you notice and Alexander makes his way into your thoughts again.

You have his number now, and he has yours as well. Should you text him? Or call him? Which does he prefer, you have no idea. He might favor calling over texting because he seems to talk a lot and who doesn’t want to hear his voice. Though he does seem tech savvy enough to like texting more. You wonder if he sends paragraphs of text or just sends six message at a time. Does he like late night conversations, what does he like to talk about?

A hurricane of thoughts concerning Alexander’s phone preferences and some anxiety filled debates over if you should even reach out to talk to him fill your brain, pulling you in. You feel trapped by your unease, thrown about and attacked by the notion of being able to talk to him but being too afraid to say something.

You try to stop that line of thinking, try to ignore it until it’s time to deal with it but you’re being dragged deeper and deeper. The idea of texting him and getting no response feels like wind cutting into your arms, accidentally leaving an embarrassing voicemail throws you into the ground. You’re crawling, searching for the eye of the hurricane, the calm in a storm. An escape and salvation from the barrage of anxiety fueled thoughts.

The calm comes in the form of Selene bringing the check. You blink a few times, you had forgotten you were at Waffle House, taking your daughter out for waffles and not trapped in a hurricane of negativity and everything that could go wrong.

You offer her a small smile and pay, thanking her for her service before taking Frances's hand and leaving.

It’s still raining when you drop Frances off at the front of her school a little before seven thirty. Frances waves excitedly at you before running off into her school, backpack bouncing on her back. Her shoes step in puddles and leave trails of water after her, splashes of blue hyacinths littering the sidewalk in her wake.

Just as you start to pull away from her school, your phone buzzes in the seat next to you, Alexander’s number flashes on the screen and your eyes widen, marigolds flood your vision, and you feel warm.

  
_He texted you first._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone can find the romeo and juliet references comment, also i love you
> 
> comment what yall think so far??? if i need to fix anything (constructive criticism) and uh yeah. comments and kudos fuel my motivation so i know i am not just doing this because i'm having some manic episode and people like it kay thnx bye


	5. White Camellia and Begonia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a text from Alexander and the two of them plan a not date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *EDIT: THIS ENTIRE CHAPTER HAS BEEN RE WRITTEN, I AM BACK TO MY OLD STYLE (I HOPE) AND THIS IS MUCH BETTER AND ALSO LONGER AND I HOPE MUCH BETTER*
> 
> I am *so* sorry I have not posted for months. Mental health has been horrible lately and school recently ended so normally I'd have more time to write maybe but I have summer class. I will definitely be trying to write and update this, maybe do an extra miniseries thing where it's just oneshots of John and Alexander or Alexander's life or the adventures of Frances and her depressed dad who loves flowers. 
> 
> There is a panic attack here that I want to say is descriptive? So be careful. Again though, there is a lot of mentions of John not coping or doing good and his sense of things are a little skewed.

He texted you first.

He actually texted you, _you_!

Oh _God_ , he _texted_ you!

You were still in the drop-off lane at Frances's school, just sitting there doing _nothing_ but staring at your wet jacket in the passenger seat, phone sitting atop it and buzzing with his message.

You know it's him, that it's Alexander because his name is plastered on the screen in bright white letters, almost glaring at you from its spot atop your jacket. It’s harsh brightness seems to burn itself into your eyes, all you can see, all you can notice really, is his name glaring at you with an unread message.

Your phone goes off again. _Another message_ . He sent another, a _(2)_ popping up next to his name as another message replaces the last. 

You just stare back at them, stuck somewhere between terror at the fact that he texted you, _actually texted you_ , and a nervous sort of excitement because that has to mean something, right, this has to be something that you aren’t just imagining? And so you stare at your phone screen, everything around you blurring and moving further and further from you until all you can hear is the phone's ring, all you can see is his name lighting up on your phone's screen, the wheel no longer in your hands, the feel of hot air coming from the AC no longer something you can feel. 

Before you know it, anxiety and worry start grow like vines, wrapping around everything good or hopeful you might have thought. Any sanguine feeling previously blooming is crushed under heavy and unpromising notions of _‘What if…’_

A shrill honk dragged you back to reality, pulling vines of unease and anxiety off of you and throwing cold water in your face. One look in the rearview mirror is enough to tell you the mother behind you is not having the best of mornings and she wants you to move. Her son, at least you assume he’s such, sits next to her, failing to cover his laughs. A teacher taps on your window and motions for you to move, a sympathetic “I know, it’s too early, I wanna be home already too,” look on her wrinkled face.

Getting your bearings together, you turn away from your phone and grip the wheel as though it’s some lifeline and pull away from the drop-off area. The Mean Mom, as you are now going to refer to her as such, rushes past you when you reach the gate, throwing a particularly rude gesture your way before she’s lost to morning traffic.

You can’t even bring yourself to be mad at her or get offended at her lack of care in the morning. If you were going to be completely honest here, if someone did what you had, you’d be pretty pissed too, especially so early in your day. Or maybe you only feel that way because any excuse to get mad at yourself is a valid one in your eyes?

Before you can get lost in thought again, maybe even bring about a panic attack even, you push it aside and focus on getting home and finding parking for after eight. You can’t remember if on Mondays it was parking on the west side until nine or eight but you won’t risk that. Last time you did, you barely made it in time to save your car from getting towed.

Idle thoughts like that occupy your mind, keep you distracted enough from ‘bad thoughts’ that you could focus on actually getting somewhere. 

The rain has slowed to a drizzle once you get home, car parked safely on the east side so as to not get towed and wet clothes in the pile accumulating in your bathroom. You sit, now changed in not wet and warm new clothes, on your couch, a blanket around your shoulders and phone on the coffee table.

You vaguely feel yourself scratch at the stubble on your chin as you contemplate checking his messages. You now have three unread messages, his texts piling up in the thirty or so minutes since you got home.

There’s still the nagging Shakespearean thought of _to read his text or not to read_ pulling at you and poking, trying to get your full attention. You know that whichever you pick, a panic attack will follow no matter how much you prepare for it. You’d panic if he accidently texted you twice and the third was just a ‘whoops wrong number’ text, panic if he was asking if you could delete his number and not text him. You’d panic if he was asking how you are or if you had any plans, and God-forbid he attempt small talk. 

These thoughts start to pile up on each other, anxiety about getting anxiety drowning you like a plant in a storm. It’s too much, _too much to deal with_. 

You need coffee.  

 

* * *

 

Two cups later and some of Frances’s leftovers from this morning and caffeine overrides any previous and unfortunately still current anxiety that resides within.

On impulse, you unlock your phone and open up his string of texts, worries pushed aside for the simple task of clearing out the overwhelming amount of notifications _and you just so happen to swipe on his names popping up and that damned (5) New Messages_.

You aren’t quite sure what, much less  _why_ he would text you period, _and not even an hour after getting your number_. And then the heavy thought of  _why_ he’d send multiple messages in such a short span of time; but you still opened his messages and read them over, and then read them over again what you read was not a possibility you thought up.

8:57AM

**This is Alex just so you know, don't freak out and think some random stranger got a hold of your number (that would be pretty wild, you have to admit)**

8:58AM 

**Hey John :p Just wanted to say hi, even though it has been like what, less than forty minutes since I last saw you? Lol who's counting tho (it's not that I am counting I'm just saying, this figure of speech is terribly placed holy shit)**

8:58AM

 

**Speaking of figures of speech, which btw are almost ALWAYS better spoken verbally, preferably in front of a crowd of people you're entertaining or a very handsome guy you want to impress: talking. We should do that, talk, more often, I hear it's good for your health, every time you talk, that's another year added onto your life span True Fact**

****8:59AM

**Anywho, just wanted to ask what’s up, start a conversation now so it’s less awkward, you know? Please, god, no small talk though, like literally ANYTHING but that, I get enough small talk from overly friendly clients**

9:04AM

**Shit I just remembered your daughter fuck, if you’re still eating waffles (?) with her I can text later??? I dunno if her school is one of those early or late starting ones but if I’m being an ASS and just spamming your daddy-daughter funtime I am so sorry**

You have to hold back a nervous giggle because _wow_ , he texts a lot. He triple texts, straight up _spams_ people, and not only that but he sends these fairly long messages to boot, paired with perfect grammar and spelling, and _God_ , that's so dorky and endearing, _who does that anymore?_

This doesn’t catch you off guard or even surprise you all that much, the two times the both of you have spoken have shown he’s wordy, talkative, and long winded at times. At best, you'd say he's chatty, at worse he's probably got enough words to go on and on for hours. And it’s adorable? It's not supposed to be, his series of messages and peculiar way of texting shouldn't be adorable and endearing and sweet and funny. It shouldn't make you smile and stutter and think "he's adorable," it really shouldn't. 

But it  _does_ , it does make you think it's adorable and it  _is_ adorable!

His texts are adorable and you’re blushing _again_ because of him, cheeks redder than poppies, and it hasn't even been that long. You can’t help but smile at this, can't fight your lips for quirking up and the wide smile spreading on your face, at his adorable messages and the worry and how it even _sounds_ like him, _do you even get to determine that with how short you've known him_ , smart and wordy and charismatic and not dead or emotionless or cold, not passive aggressive or biting harsh words and simple insults. Rather annoyingly and refreshingly so, his texts are adorable and a sweet reprieve from what you're used to. They're long and wordy and sound so similar to how he talks in real life and you find it adorable despite everything,  _everyone_ , that told you not to think that way.

His  _adorable_ texting is relieving, a nice break from the routine and emotionally distant at best conversations you've usually had on the phone when texting someone. It's lively, albeit new and barely having begun, but even his army of messages is enough to tell you this won't be some dull thread of sluggish responses and tense small talk.

His texting almost reminds you of your mother’s old garden in a strange way; dead flowers springing to life before your eyes, blooming and radiating color and comfort, alive again. Buckeye is brushing against your legs as you run along the edges of her garden, their petals tickling, pulling laughs and smiles out of you. Pink milkweed practically shining under your mother’s care, the buds are close to blooming and the more mature ones are so beautiful, leaves glistening with water.

If you close your eyes, you can almost feel the sun on you again, almost hear your mother telling you about Carolina Jessamines and how her sisters used to call them a Poor Man’s Rope when she was growing up.

Closing your eyes you genuinely feel at home in the garden with your mother again, you can almost feel the bark of the birch tree you’d lay on, the grass a bit overgrown around the roots of the tree but soft and not uncomfortable. 

A sixth message from Alexander is what brings you back this time, telling you you've gone too far and gotten far too distracted, latching onto some childhood memory and completely forgetting about the texts in need of a response. His over eagerness to hear from you through yet another text is a God send, the notification going off and bringing you back to now, firmly keeping you in place like the roots of a plant. You open his message, a small smile forming on your lips already.

 9:12AM

**I feel as though it is safe to assume Frances has been dropped off to get an education, waffles already eaten, daddy-daughter funtime bonding over, and the food session done by now. I don't really have kids (does a cat count really???) so I don't really know school times and such but nine something feels good enough to steal some of your time away for myself (again lol)**

9:12AM

 **And so I must ask, as Etiquette To Making Friends You Met At A Child's Birthday Party 101 says, what’s up?? How’s it hangin’?**   **How have the past hour and some been for you, it's been FOREVER since we've spoken hasn't it? So much time, gone, just like that, and we just sit here helpless to it all. Darn you time, going by so fast**

You are a blushing _fool_ on your couch, pulling the blanket over your eyes as though that would save you, face hotter than your coffee. How can a grown man, a _lawyer_ at that, be so adorable and manage to accurately convey his personality and speech habits in simple texts? How can a grown man like yourself actually fall for it, whatever "it" may be?

That is a mystery as far as you are concerned, most likely one you'll never solve. But it is high time you respond to him and his train of text, stop leaving him hanging for so long with nothing but a " _read at 9:12AM_ " and no reply. You should really work on answering people back when they text instead of avoiding it and ignoring it.

 

* * *

 

**_B O N U S !_ **

**_Quick PoV change to Alexander for plot purposes_ bet you didn't see THAT comin' lol**

 

Sinking into your armchair, you held your phone close to your face, praying he’ll just answer. The pain this man, whom you just met the other day,  is already causing you frustrates you. How can someone you just met and barely know already control your emotions so much? It’s ridiculous, this shouldn’t matter as much as you’re making it!

You check your phone again, groaning aloud in a dramatic fashion as per usual, and slouch further down in your arm chair. You have never felt more impatient, never felt more determined to get a response, than you do now. Your cat is glaring at you from the coffee table, almost as if she’s silently judging you from her spot on papers and coasters she dragged there. Her hazel eyes don’t move from where she has them trained on you, a scornful and some what ‘holier-than-thou’ look on her furry face. The look she has says ‘Stop being dumb and emotional and give me food please’ and who are you to deny her that, she _is_ free of emotional attachments and very logical, almost speaking out to you in times of stress. Who needs therapy when you have an all knowing cat?

A grumpy sounding meow from her gets you up, pulls your attention away from your phone that you shoved in your pocket and the three messages you sent in quick succession, drifting instead to what would Bea like? Bea is your all knowing cat, who judges your poor life choices and is the pickiest of eaters. Which brings you back to ‘ _what does Bea want to eat today?’_

You hear her little paws on the floor, Bea making her way over to the kitchen most likely to perch herself on the counter and hiss at the foods she doesn’t want. Why you chose to get the pickiest and most judgmental cat you have ever come across in all of your 27 years of life is beyond you.

You’re sorting through her cat food cans, a chocolate bar you had saved in the fridge in your left hand, when John and texting pops up. You should probably check if he responded yet, see if he’s even gotten the messages? Who knows, they might not have even sent, they could still be in the process of actually sending, not yet having reached him. You should probably go and check right now, yes you should check. You might have mis-spelled something or it sent to the wrong number. What of it didn’t even sent at all, then all of this anxiety is meaningless and you should rush over right now and drop everything and actually send a text. Unless he prefers calling, ugh! You could’ve called him! That would get a quicker response!

You must have stopped browsing the cat foods and started moving to get your phone because Bea is at your feet scratching and  meowing. She’s annoyed and wants food, right. Chocolate bar in mouth, phone in left hand and chicken cat food in the other hand you serve Bea, her cute silver cat bowl empty and clean, just waiting to be filled with more food.

“Alright, that seem good enough for ya, huh? Chicken tastes good they are one of America’s popular foods aside from like burgers and hot dogs, yeah? It’s good Bea, just eat up, daddy’s gonna just go and text John real quick, leave a quick message while you eat and uh, hopefully he answers, ha ha, yeah.” You’re nervously rambling to your uninterested cat who seems a bit off put that you gave her chicken instead of something else, but chicken will have to do.

Bea saunters over to her bowl and seems to eat with a vengeance, not caring if she gets messy or if the kitchen floor gets messy. Her light orange fur has chunks of chicken near her mouth, she’s licks pieces off of the floor. You’re gonna have to clean that later which would be unfair but you did just give her chicken instead of waiting to see if she wanted something else. Alas, your phone waits and your very impatient mind is buzzing.

Sitting near Bea but not close enough to get dirty, you unlock your phone to find no new messages from anyone important, three from Gilbert you’ll look at later, one from Tallmadge asking about Andre, _do you think he's busy today or am I coming off as desperate now_ , four from Meade, jeez you definitely need to answer him later, poor guy, and a few others from various people.

But none from John. Huh.

Your mind gets carried away with thoughts and theories as to why he hasn’t answered your texts, which you checked twice and yes, you did send them. His phone could’ve gotten wet and isn’t in working order, having gotten soaked from the rain earlier. Or perhaps he’s just driving and doesn’t want to text and drive, he was on his way to his car to take Frances to get waffles- He could still be dropping off his daughter yes! John’s got a kid, he could very well still be eating with her or dropping her off at school whenever that starts. That is a much more reasonable explanation than any of the others, though you do hope he isn’t one to text and drive that would be quite the turn off.

You’ll just send another message, he has a daughter and probably just forgot to check his texts or he’s busy with Frances and so he hasn’t yet checked his phone. Of course that must be it, Alexander Hamilton you are a genius man. Bea’s logical thinking is rubbing off on you.

You begin to type out a message (or two) to John, fingers excitedly racing over the keyboard. You’re satisfied with your message and press send, a confident smile on your face. Crisis averted, you saved the day.  

9:12AM

**I feel as though it is safe to assume Frances has been dropped off to get an education, waffles already eaten, daddy-daughter funtime bonding over, and the food session done by now. I don't really have kids (does a cat count really???) so I don't really know school times and such but nine something feels good enough to steal some of your time away for myself (again lol)**

9:12AM

 **And so I must ask, as Etiquette To Making Friends You Met At A Child's Birthday Party 101 says, what’s up?? How’s it hangin’?**   **How have the past hour and some been for you, it's been FOREVER since we've spoken hasn't it? So much time, gone, just like that, and we just sit here helpless to it all. Darn you time, going by so fast**

Okay maybe crisis _not_ averted,  _wow,_ that last message is horrible. What happened to your charisma and good people skills and undeniable charm? Where did that go? Who did this? What happened to Alexander “Smooth Talker” Hamilton and his wildly amazing skills at-

Oh John replied!

Your train of thought is cut off and crisis is once again averted, John has answered, _praise God, he is real and he is good and supports you, hell yeah_! You’re smiling wide, eyes glued to the phone and reading every word he sent, as little as there may be. Maybe the whole awkward flirting is his thing, maybe that's what he likes.

9:15AM 

**etiquette to making friends 101wow ill have to check that out, God knows i need it lol when im tryin to talk to people**

9:15AM

**but im doing good, you?**

  
The last thought in your head before it is taken over with fantasizing about how John’s voice would sound talking to him at this very moment saying those very words; which words would sound more pronounced with that accent, did he mean to drop the g on trying on purpose or is that habit? You never thought one man's simple and short texts would make you feel like this, make your head all foggy and clogged with his cute voice and get you anxious when he doesn't respond right away. 

You are Alexander Hamilton dammit, you don't need these petty connections and dumb feelings-  _there's another text, what's he saying now?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title, White Camellia and Begonia, comes from flowers and their meanings. I've been doing that each chapter but I felt like I should start actually giving the meanings of the flowers I picked since they can mean different things all over.  
> White Camellia means you're adorable  
> Begonia means being nervous, anxious and the like


	6. Red Carnations and Adonis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories memories memories. 
> 
> John gets deep in thought, rushes for a date, not date, and ponders the extraordinary being that is Alexander Hamilton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'ALL I AM SO SORRY LMAO THIS IS L A T E. 
> 
> School is kicking my ass and I am NOT coping so instead I wrote this. It took me days because I've been having one of those writers blocks and it sucks. Anyways, without further adieu, I bring you this chapter. 
> 
> Some Content Warnings because it gets pretty depressing?  
> Mention of unwanted physical touching and somewhat sexual undertones to go with it. Depression, PTSD, anxiety. Big warning on that depression one and PTSD, John has a pretty bad episode in here and folks, this isn't the worst it's gonna get. But yeah, read with caution guys, if this stuff triggers any panic attacks don't read.

The mirror was covered in a layer of steam, smaller bits drifting up into the vent above the door. You watched the steam above you and on the mirror, watched it curl upwards and make patterns as they float higher and higher, bending and naturally being moved up and up. You think to yourself, the steam is quite like you right now, isn’t it?

You’ve been nonstop texting him- texting _Alexander_ \- almost nonstop since you came home from dropping Frances off. With every message you seemed to float higher and higher, smiling like a school-girl and _blushing_ , actually blushing at his words and texts. You are soaring high, almost dipping your fingers into the clouds, smiling ever more so as you floated higher and higher up still, the condensation creating drops on your nose and cheeks. It was warm and nice and gave you the feeling of flying. 

You reach out, the clouds starting to get closer and your hands are wet and-

_BRING_

Your phone’s ringtone goes off, snapping you out of your, your what? Dream? Regardless of how sweet it was, you were zoning out again. You lost track of time and what was going on and lost focus and what are you _doing_? What are you doing just standing in front of the mirror overthinking things and stressing over what could be nothing, hopefully? 

_BRING_

Your phone goes off again, you should get it. You should check, you should answer. Answer your phone, John, answer your phone, _why don't you just answer your phone, John?_

_BRING_

Okay! _Okay_ , okay. Pulling the towel tighter around your waist you reach to get your phone. A smile takes over your worried face, it’s Alexander. He is triple texting you again. Talking to him, you have learned that he is a triple texter, quadruple texter, sending maybe five or six messages just to say hello, how are you? It’s weirdly cute, how obsessively he texts like he needs to let everything out and if he doesn’t send at least three texts than how can he _possibly_ say what he intends to? _God_ , you are smitten.

11:24AM

 **Okay so, I know that we’ve been texting for like, what, two hours or so straight about this, but just to make sure (again), we’re meeting up at the place I mentioned in like thirty minutes, right?** **You have the address I sent and everything but I need to just do a quick triple check**

11:24AM

**Because like, I’m starting to get ready (late, I know, I probably shouldn’t have said that but whoops it’s there, honesty am I right?) and I just wanna make sure we’re on a similar enough time schedule about this so no one shows up and has to wait for a ridiculous amount of time**

11:25AM

**Al** **so I just mean I don’t want to be the only one marginally ready for this, I don't even think I can say that though, I'm at home and not wearing pants and Bea stole my shoeDAMMIT BEAPIMNEAKUHOII**

He’s typing again before you can even finish reading his three messages.

11:27

**Cat distracted, pants located and one foot is in, do I smell a victory?**

11:27AM

******UGH I sound like an anxious fool, I’m not normally like this, John, I swear, I’m normally cool and shit, I am a very cool guy. It’s the coffee. And yes, I just drank some coffee and yes I still wanna go out with you to get some (more) coffee. If you don’t like coffee we can’t be friends, John, sorry. Thems the rules. Coffee and politics is where I put my foot down, maybe peanuts too, I'm allergic and they taste bad anyways who would willingly eat those**

He can’t be serious, you cannot function or live without coffee. You’re a single father for crying out loud, what would you do _without_ coffee?

You’re a single father. You have a _kid_ , you’re a parent! With a daughter! Of course you like coffee!

A few short hours ago you dropped Frances off at school, well at kindergarten, but that still counts. Your daughter,  _daughter, fuck._ You dropped your _daughter_ off, your _daughter_ who has a mother- _had_ a mother who you were _married to_ and had a kid with _,_ had your _daughter with_. Who you loved but not in the way two married people should, especially with a kid on the way- 

You type out a short response, successfully avoiding that particular rabbit hole of horrible, before sliding into your shower. You can almost see the white rabbit now, popping his obnoxious head out and tempting your mind with terrible memories and burning guilt. Dumb, stupid,  _unfortunately right_ , rabbit and his stupid hole detouring in depression on the way to Wonderland. Focusing on showering might help, should help, distract you from that rabbit lingering at the edges of your mind, tempting and cruel. 

The water if hot, as expected, but feels nice on your skin, relaxing even. The steam mixed with the hot spray from your shower hit your face and you lean in, get under the shower head damn near hitting your head on it, and close your eyes and just let the water wash over you.

You had hoped, begged and prayed really, that the soothing water would just wash away the bad thoughts and anxiety and thoughts of _Martha_ and her face turning from happy to desperate to resigned and everything else. Had hoped the water may scare off that stupid rabbit and the train wreck that was your early twenties. Alas, God takes no pity on you,  _do you even really deserve it at this point_ , and as soon as you shut your eyes to shield against the spray you see her face, clear as day, right in front of you. 

Martha’s laying down on the bed next to you, smiles and dimples and all, only inches away and laying on her side to look at you. Her curly hair is spread out all around the both of you, falling over her shoulders and stray curls getting in her face. She just smiles wider though, brushes a curl behind her ear, giggling and then she’s reaching for you _oh no her hand is getting closer._ This is the part you always dread.

Her manicured nails are painted orange, almost a daylily orange, and her fingers are short and chubby, they'll probably go back to short and skinny once she's had the baby. Her wedding ring sits there on a swollen finger, the big diamonds decorating her band and catching the early morning light, it's too bright.

The band feels cold on your skin as her hand moves to caress your cheek, fingers curling there oh so softly and you want to flinch, have to hold back the violent urge to, you want to move away frim  _her_ or scream or say _something, anything,_ just do _something and get away_ but you’re frozen under her warm stare. You’re frozen underneath the Sun she has blocked out and replaced and trapped in her too warm eyes and you cannot move to save yourself. 

She says something, what she said you didn't catch, and smiles again, her fingers move up your cheek to your hair to bury themselves in your messy bedhead hair. You want to curl in on yourself and cry and scream but all you can manage is sitting up suddenly, maybe a bit aggressively, pushing her hand off and putting distance between you two. You’re getting up from the bed and pulling on clothes, yanking them on too hard, snatching your boxers from the floor and you shirt and sit there on the edge of the bed, shoving your clothes on.

Once you get dressed, once you're no longer _physically_ naked and vulnerable, you just sit there, free from her hands if only for a moment, free from having to look at her and her ring and her eyes and her stomach. For a moment, only for a moment, you can ignore this has all happened, you can ignore the biggest mistake of your life and pretend like you’re in college again with him and she isn’t here, lying naked in bed behind you with this heavy mistake between the two of you.

It works for all of a second and then she is pressed against your back, you can feel the bump and you want to cry. She’s saying something again, probably asking if you’re okay or if you want something to eat, but you don’t hear a word she says. All you can hear is bits and pieces from that night in May when you went to her, distressed and drunk and heartbroken. All you can hear is her nervous laugh and words of encouragement, her telling you how much she’s loved you and how everything will be okay with her, she’d _never_ hurt you. But it felt like she was. It felt like she was hurting you emotionally, mentally. You couldn’t see clearly, your fingers blurred together and you couldn’t tell whose arm was whose, whose tears were whose _where you were what are you doing get out get_ ** _out_** **_get ou--_**

_Bring_

Your eyes snap open, your head turns so quickly you almost get whiplash. Your phone went off. You blink and then blink once more, trying to get the tears and water out from your eyes so you can see even if everything stills feels blurred together and not real and _where are you_. 

_Bring_

Oh right, you’re at home, you’re taking a shower in your home in Philadelphia. You are home alone and taking a shower because-- Because what?

You wash your hair quickly and get out, the water was getting cold anyway and now you are no longer calmed by the water and the steamy bathroom feels overwhelming and too stuffy. You pull the towel tight around your waist, hating the bit of extra skin and weight you have there but not dwelling on it for too long. You lazily grab your phone as you leave, hair dripping down your back and wet feet padding across the floor.

When you make it to your bedroom, right across from Frances’ room in case something happen to her, You sit on the edge of your bed and unlock your phone to check what was that notification was from earlier.

Alexander. Shit. You’re meeting with him in thirty minutes. Actually, less now what with all that time you wasted in the shower. _Shit_.

You almost slip trying to get to your closet and pull out something to wear.

Jeans or slacks or a suit or jeans but _cuffed_ or jeans with holes or with paint on them which you’ll need to wash later, John Laurens what the fuck wash your clothes, you gross man. You are twenty-six, will be twenty-seven in a few months, and you can’t properly wash your own damn clothes. You have a child and yet there are still dirty pants with your clean ones. 

Shaking your head at yourself you just go with cuffed jeans, simple but it looks like you are trying, right? Oh, you are a _mess_ today, you just need more coffee, that should help, yes? Coffee should help you, right?

Picking out the rest of your outfit, a nice sweater your sister had given you and a thick undershirt, you pull on some miscellaneous shoes, who even cares at this point if they match, and trip over yourself trying to quickly get to the bathroom again to fix your hair. It is a dripping golden rat’s nest atop your head and you are just way too tired and stressed to fix it too much. You put it in a messy (messy) bun and rush to get your keys, your phone in your pocket, oversized jacket on, and then you’re out of the door in a matter of seconds.

You’re speed walking to the train, too tired to sit in your car and drive. You aren’t in the mood for stress-fueled road rage and being too tired to realize it was your fault and not theirs like you accused them.

By the time you’ve ran down the steps and passed the turn stalls, waiting for the next train to come by, you just think to yourself you have no idea where you’re even going. You haven’t checked the address he sent you that you know he sent because you guys talked about this, you’re certain he sent it. Why would he send you off without giving you the address, that would be ridiculous, and he seems anything but.

You spot a bench that seems clean and somewhat empty, only a mom and her daughter sit laughing at something together, the daughter looks older than Frances but not by much. She has dimples just like hers though, and that same childish smile with missing teeth.

You have to stop yourself from staring when you notice her mother glaring at you, the laughs were gone and the smiles from their faces replaced with a cautious look and straight face. Right, staring isn’t acceptable in public places. And the whole thing probably looked horrible and now you’ll have to stand rather than risk sitting next to them and getting punched or scaring them off.

Looking elsewhere, you decide on just standing near a column to check your phone and wait for the train. You open up your messages once you make it to the column, past people rushing in all directions and the mom you probably freaked out.

There are two unread messages from Alexander you completely forgot about. Great job, Laurens.

11:57AM

**lol me not like coffee??? alexander im  a single feather ofc i love coffee, how else would i take care of a six year old, Alexander**

11:57AM

**father* sry**

His response is immediate and you feel a small spike of shame for having taken so long to respond to his texts.

11:59AM

**Thank GOD LOL, I was worried we couldn’t be friends, Laurens. Anyways, great you love coffee, that’s another thing we have in common, love it.**

11:59AM

**OH!**

12:00PM

**Shit ok, I almost forgot, I’m gonna leave my place in like five minutes cause hair (have to make sure I look good ;)) and then I have the cutest outfit too but that took me like twenty minutes to pick out which SUCKS.**

12:01PM

**Ok wow, that wink looks awkward with the double parentheses, would it be less weird like (; ) or no no that’s weird still, now it looks like a double face and that’s awkward-er. More awkward. This text is a train wreck jesus fucking christ. My recent texts do not defend the standing argument of me being cool and smooth but I really, really am once you meet me (again). Like I promise I’m cooler. Anyways, I’ll see you later Laurens, adieu.**

By the end of reading his messages you know you probably look like a rose, burning red and eyes wide, imitating a rose in bloom.

God, he is something, really. He seems almost unreal, as though a person such as himself could only exist in one’s head and yet here he is, texting you like a nervous middle schooler and nothing like the suave poet he was that first hour spent texting with him. It was endearing in all honesty, and you appreciated it, really. It was nice to not be the only one nervous, to not be the only “shy” one who stumbles over his own feet whenever he meets someone new and exciting.

Your head is a jumbled mess of his laugh and face, daydreaming about him laughing at his own joke or blowing at a stray curl in his face and then another mess of Martha. You honestly can’t stop thinking about her and it pains you.

But that’s in the past, right? Martha’s part of the before, part of a time you’d rather not dwell on. Alexander is _now_ though, he’s here and makes you laugh in a way that doesn’t feel completely forced. And he’s typing oh God.

 12:09PM

 **Tsk tsk John, you are terrible at responding. I can forgive that though, because the train has just pulled into the next station and guess who I see with my little eye, staring at his phone with a small smile on his face?** **(It's you, wild, we ride the same train??)**

He’s _here_ ? How? Your head is snapping up before you can complete that thought and there he is, standing at a window right next to the doors of the newest train pulling in, a smirk on his face and phone cupped in his hand. You can’t help the chuckle that slips from your mouth when you see him just standing there _smirking_ at you like a little kid who got a particularly nice gift for his birthday. The thought makes you blush harder and you start moving onto the train, head down and eyes glued to the ground to keep him from seeing. 

When you make it to where he is inside, standing up since there seems to be little to no space for the both of you to sit, he gives you a small bow, holding onto the pole above with one arm and bending the other for “proper bowing”. Honestly, this man is something unreal.

“My my, Laurens, it’s nice to see you’re alive.” His voice is just as smooth as it was this morning and your face is just as red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder, if I'm writing something metally healthy wise wrong, tell me or say something. All of John's mental health problems are based off of my own but in case someone who has been diagnosed with any disorder or has any similar experience doesn't like how I put it into words please tell me. 
> 
> Okay so, I wanna post some art I've done for this? In the next chapter? If y'all have any art you want posted just comment and we can talk about it. Or if you wanna see MY art say something so I know if someone wants to go blind seeing my bad drawing skills.
> 
> Red Carnations mean an aching heart  
> Adonis means a sad memory


	7. Yellow Roses and Daffodils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flowers, drifting off, and feelings?
> 
> John and Alexander have met up for a not date date and this is the train ride they have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this entire thing has taken course over two days i need to move on 
> 
> But hi! two updates within the SAME month i know! shocking! ive just been in a mood and writing helps so here this is y'all

“My my, Laurens, it’s nice to see you’re alive. Have you just not been getting the messages or am I hallucinating? No no, don’t tell me it’s more fun to figure out myself. But anyways, how are you since the what, four hours since I last saw you? I know I already asked via text, but how was the daddy-daughter date you had this morning?” His mouth is moving the second the doors shut and you two settle beside each other, not too close but so far that the two of you look like strangers.

 

You can’t help the smile pulling at the corners of your mouth, can’t stop it from growing into yet another chuckle. 

 

“I’m fine, Alexander thank you. And waffles with Fanny was good, she has excellent taste for a six-year-old who ate a lollipop she found on the floor.” You don’t talk nearly as much as he does, nor do you speak with such confidence as he does, but your response is good enough. 

 

Short and sweet, just like your father taught you growing up. You can hear your father criticizing Alexander's loquacious mouth, scowling at how he never seemed to run out of words to say. Your father never liked that, preferred short and sweet, to cut right to the point rather than drag your sentence on and on. He used to joke and tell you it’s the “slower” kids, the dumb ones barely manage to graduate, who need to talk for longer than necessary. You never really agreed with that, you knew some smart boys who needed to use entire pages just to explain their point and they would even score higher than you on exams. And now here you are, talking to the smartest boy you've met, the smartest boy you've ever met by far. 

 

Probably the most handsome too. You don't think you've ever met a boy whose beauty rivaled that of a bouquet or the finest flowers known to man. Yet here he was, standing beside you and getting ready to open his mouth to say something. 

 

“That honestly sounds like a story I’d love to hear, and,” he looks around, that smile has never left his lips once, “we have time. Considering the Marquis’ cafe is a bit far you should be able to bequeath this story to me. It honestly sounds like something, John, eating some lollipop you find on the floor. It raises questions, dear John, questions I am dying for some answers to.” You could hear the amusement in his voice, it's almost as though rather than wearing his heart on his sleeve he wears it like some lipstick that sticks to his every word. He bumped his shoulder against yours and everything inside you screamed. 

 

He's flirting with you, isn't he? Bumping his shoulder against yours and smiling and all of those winks and when the train moves his hand is always conveniently close enough to brush against yours and- And you're overthinking this. You're over watering the plant and in doing so you're going to kill it before it ever gets to bloom. 

 

He's just being friendly, trying to ease you into the conversation most likely. You probably look tense is all and he wanted to comfort that in a nonverbal way that meant he  _ had _ to brush his hand against yours and bump into you and smile in a way that makes the world slow down and look  _ brighter  _ and colorful and not so dull anymore. He was a friend, a new one at that that you have just met too. He was just a friend who wanted to hang out and to think otherwise is wrong and  _ what is wrong with you _ ? 

 

Don't turn his offering of a yellow rose into a daffodil. You really don't need that, and neither does he, probably. 

 

Don't turn into the weed that ruins the flower before it blooms. 

 

“Hey, are you good, Laurens? You dozed out for a minute there, smiled a little and then just got this blank look and your eyebrows did that nervous thing people do when they scrunch up their face. Are you alright or just  _ really _ not a morning person? I mean either way I could understand, hell, maybe even  _ relate _ too. But seriously, are you good?” His words hit you like a hose on a leaf, shaking you to your core but refreshing nonetheless. Right. He's worried because you were rude and zoned out and already you are just ripping off the petals, tearing the bud apart.  _ Useless _ . 

 

“Sorry I was, I just was uh, thinking about something-- Anyways, you uh, you were,” you clear your throat before finishing,” You were saying something? It was lollipops right?” Day one and already you are a terrible friend to him. You could feel the flower wilting before your eyes. 

 

His smile comes as a shock, the grin it turns into is even more jarring than that smile of his. With another shock, you notice he has dimples, the placement different from Frances’ and his more prominent but they’re  _ there _ . And you’re blushing again,  _ Jesus _ .

 

“Naturally curious as to what had you so deep in thought, I’m going to keep this in mind for a future conversation,” He  _ winks _ at you, “But you still have yet to tell this lollipop story. Really, John, if we were sitting I’d be on the edge of my seat in anticipation. Tsk tsk, did you ever learn to never keep an interested man waiting? Since I like you so much, as much as one  _ could _ like someone they’ve nearly just met, I’ll forgive you for keeping me in such anxious excitement. Now, that story about your daughter managing to eat a lollipop she found on the floor, which that in itself amazes me since you most likely could’ve kept her from eating the lollipop.” You hang onto every word of his like raindrops cling onto leaves. His voice is just as smooth, too. 

 

You smile at him, a genuine smile filled with amusement. It feels like one of those smiles that just take over your whole face and makes your eyes shine. You chuckle, the smile so big you can’t help but chuckle. 

 

“Well, you see…” 

 

The rest of the train ride is spent talking about your daughter’s quirk of eating food off anywhere and everywhere, peeling a lollipop off a leaf on the floor and then shoving it in her mouth, running over to you and speaking, lollipop still in her mouth but now shoved to the side and filling her cheek, “Look Papa, lollipop!” 

 

During this trip, you find you adore his laugh, his laugh which is the water feeding growing daffodil inside of you. You find he is just as amazing a listener as he is a speaker, paying his full attention to every word that comes out of your mouth and encouraging you to speak even when you stumble over some words or can’t find the right thing to say. 

 

As the two of you step off the train and walk past the turnstiles, up the stairs and outside of the subway, you find you absolutely adore him and his laugh and his dimples and attentiveness. 

 

As the two of you walk to this odd mix of cafe-restaurant he swears is good, walking just a little ahead of you, mouth moving a mile a minute, you find you adore how he walks, too.

 

As the two of you come to a stop in front of a cleaned up and well-taken care of building, his smile brightening and stories about his friend who  _ owns the place _ filling your ears just as the smile fills your cheeks, you find you adore his voice and smile and the way he smirks ever so slightly before he laughs. 

 

You find you adore  _ him _ . This terrifies you.

 

Before you can panic properly, his hand is on your wrist and he’s pulling you inside this ‘Marquis’ cafe and your thoughts are left outside past the doorway. Unfortunately, your anxiety clings to you and you find yourself standing behind this handsome talkative man who  _ knows the owner _ and you find yourself lost. 

 

This is going to be long and you aren’t sure if you’re even awake enough for this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, shorter chaoter sorry bUT it IS a faster update than what i am used to if that make sup for anything
> 
> also sorry for that cliff hanger LMAO
> 
> So, if the chapter hasn't given a hint as to what the flowers in the chapter means (which is cool, flowers are complicated)  
> Yellow Rose- Friendship  
> Daffodil-Feelings of love, typically unrequited


	8. LMAO DOUBLE UPDATE (This is Art)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is some Art a friend of mine did for me and then some sketches and such from me? Not good ones because I'm not the best artist buT hey, its effort? right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: The only ones with somewhat designs or at least descriptions are john and alexander thus far. Alexander's a ginger with purple blue-ish eyes and curly hair and John is a blond with light blue eyes. The only really confirmed traits i've conjured up for our dearest Frances is dimples and curly hair. Same goes for Martha Manning :')

This was done by one of my best friends, it's how they picture Frances and I love it!!

 

An _unfortunate_ work in progress I have...

Pencil sketch????

I drew this while talking to another dear friend of mine who reads this garbage I produce on a nonexistent schedule  

These are undercut laurens but hey who knows maybe I'll give good ole'jack a haricut 

 

Anyways that's all I have for now, the rest are just, messes. Horrible horrible messes. I have twitter if anyone wants that or like, I don't know? Hope this was a nice change, give thoughts and opinions in the comments if you want. Comments help writers live. No pressure. 


	9. Red Carnations and Pink Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meet'n'greet, faces filled with freckles and awkward conversations. 
> 
> John meets Gilbert and is in a lot deeper than anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey? It's a me, Leo? I'm soooo sorry I haven't updated in months and my updating schedule is none existent y'all I'm on break so imma try harder but here it is
> 
> Uhhhh Tws for this chapter other than like mild dissociation and getting nervous and anxious I can't think of any, this chapter is relatively light.

His mouth is moving a mile every second, words spilling forth faster than you can keep track of, truly a motor-mouth in the true sense of the word.

 

He’s speaking faster than light it seems, and your anxiety is trailing not far behind. 

 

Alexander is talking fast, very fast it seems, to some man lounging behind the counter, his long legs propped up on a barstool, chewing gum and popping it at random, somehow managing to keep a huge smile on his face while he does so. He has choppy orange almost bronze colored hair that sticks up every which way, one spot’s even stuck to his forehead and another poking out from behind his ear, determined to make its presence noticed. He’s covered in freckles but not like Alexander; his are everywhere, every inch of skin covered in them whereas Alexander’s are spread out more evenly, patches here and there, pale splotches that come together and catch your eye and make you go ‘ _ Oh _ ’ when you see them. This guy, well, his freckles seem to devour him, eat up every inch of skin and take over completely. From his orange hair to his freckles, he could almost be related to Alexander, maybe a brother, but his eyes set him apart and take away the similarity. His eyes are brown, almost as though he has chocolate cosmos trapped in his eyes, dark and yet enticing and warmer than you’d think. It’s so  _ different _ from Alexander’s eyes, warm and smiling rather than filled with fire and smirks. 

 

He’s wearing a yellow shirt that says “Cur Non?” in looping letters.  _ Why not? _ , in Latin. You start to wonder if he knows what that means if he knows Latin or just thought it looked nice and bought it as you know a majority of people do in fashion. Though, judging from his watch and all of the jewelry he’s wearing, you’d guess he has the money to spend on random articles of clothing, regardless of what they say. Or maybe, since he appears to have money, he went to some fancy school to learn the dead language. Or maybe you’re just overthinking this. 

 

His fingers sparkle with all the rings they’re covered in, flying around as he talks just as fast as Alexander if not faster. His thin lips move swiftly and quickly, occasionally he just smiles wide showing all his teeth and laughing loud as though he has no care in the world. You can see how someone like him would be friends with Alexander; he’s charismatic and just as loudly him as Alexander. 

 

Their conversation starts to drift to you, and he’s looking over at you now, smiling with his blindingly white teeth and chocolate eyes smiling at you from under thin orange eyebrows. He’s saying something to Alexander and, now paying attention to the words coming their mouths, you realize he is not speaking English, he’s speaking  _ French _ . 

 

You realize this man must be  _ fluent _ in French to speak it so quickly and-

 

And speaking back in just as rapid-fire french is Alexander-- _ Alexander _ \--who must be at the very least fluent in the language to be able to keep up with it that much and at such a speed and oh  _ God _ , you are done for. 

 

You want to imagine Alexander speaking French to you now, imagine his lips moving to form the words and press your lips to his throat to feel his when he speaks and  _ God _ , you are gone. You are  _ done for _ .

 

You start to pay more attention to what the hell is going on exactly and push the warm feeling that has started climbing up your throat to the back, ignoring it in favor of listening and  _ not _ appearing like some flustered idiot who can’t speak french even though you can speak the language more than fine having lived in Geneva for a few years. 

 

Alexander’s hand still hasn’t left yours, you notice with a start when he smiles and holds your hand, your hand still holding  _ his _ , out to shake this ginger mystery’s hand. Alexander is beaming at you, eyes bright and dimples really showing. He’s glowing more than ever and his red hair stands out more than it did before, red daylilies and cosmos sprouting before your eyes and you’re melting at the sight of it. 

 

Before you can lose yourself too much, he opens his mouth to speak. 

 

“This is my friend who owns this fine cafe, Monsieur Gilbert du Motier de La Fayette, but for convenience's sake you can just call him Gilbert or Long Boy if you want to get his attention quicker because he has the tendency to space out or just run off because he saw something “pretty” which is an annoying habit of his which he likes to claims he’s been working on but of course, no one really believes in that because he is him. Gilbert this is John Laurens,” He winks there, he  _ winks _ at you, “A new friend of mine who I invited to some coffee or brunch or whatever it is you rich kids eat at like, what, nine or ten in the morning and thought, ‘Hey, I could bring him to Gil’s place and get us  _ free _ whatever timed meal or snack it is,’ and so here we are.”

 

Gilbert’s hand is long and just as covered in freckles as the rest of him, smooth and soft though like he uses lotions and soaps to keep them that way. It almost makes you self-conscious of your rough hands, the calluses you’ve collected over time and cuts from not being careful. Judging from his smile, Gilbert doesn’t really seem to mind much. 

 

“Ah, a new friend, hm? Mon petit lion, any friend of yours is a friend of mine, especially one as, euh, beau? T'avais utilisé quel mot, déjà? D'une beauté presque agaçante, euh, intelligent, et avec l'air d'être tout doux? Oui, beau c'est ce que tu m'avais dit. Ah, hello John Laurens, the pleasure to meeting you!” He’s grinning and it honestly seems so genuine but at the words, Gilbert spoke in French your face is turning red and warming up at an alarming rate and you feel your heart beating in your ears. 

 

_ Does he think you don’t understand French? Oh God, they have  _ no idea _ you can speak French, do they?  _ You’re torn between hysterically laughing and crying at the situation, this is--what  _ is _ this? Your brain answers before you can realize  _ what  _ this is; it’s a mess. A hilarious and somewhat pretentious mess. And you’re going to make it even messier and even more hilarious by responding in  _ French _ , because the sudden thought of a flustered Alexander hearing you respond to their French  _ with _ more French, realizing you heard and understood exactly what Gilbert said about you; that mental image is enough to convince you it’s a good enough idea, if a messy one, to follow through with. 

 

“Oh, êtes-vous français? De toute façon, comme vous l'avez dit avant, Alexandre, l'un de vos amis est mon ami. Ah, et je trouve aussi que Alexandre est assez beau bonhomme, quoique je pense que je ne l'ai pas exprimé avec autant de force.” Your voice sounds much more cocky than intended, but it seems to convey what you wanted to get across according to Gilbert’s red face, almost hiding his sea of freckles, and Alexander’s sudden paling added with  the way he turns (almost as fast as he talks but this seems more fueled by anger rather than an amiable and excited conversation with a close friend) to glare at Gilbert. 

 

Alexander is sputtering beside Gilbert whose cheeks have red roses blooming in between each individual freckle on his face. 

 

You consider this a win, having successfully made the messy situation messier and, in your opinion, much more hilarious if you want to take their reactions into consideration. 

 

“I, uh, hm. John, I had no idea,” it’s Gilbert’s turn to glare now, his brown eyes trained on Alexander,” no idea at all, that you, ah, you speak French.  _ Oh mince _ .” Gilbert’s got his face buried in his hands, just as covered in freckles as his blushing face, muttering something you can’t decipher. 

 

You can’t help the smile twitching at your lips, the proud and satisfied feeling of knowing something someone didn’t expect you and then shocking them with your knowledge rising inside of you and bubbling beneath your chest. It’s a warm feeling, a nice one that you don’t feel as often as you’d like. It makes you feel smarter than you actually are, boosts your near non-existent self-esteem. 

 

“I lived in Geneva when I was in high school and then for two more years for college. I had to learn how to speak the language otherwise I would’ve been lost. I’ve also just been fluent in French since I was like 13 so there’s that too.” Your smile turns from prideful to bashful, feeling shy as you tell them this. You know you're not gloating or trying to show off anything, after all, they’re just as “talented” as you are, probably more so what with the speed at which they speak the language in and the comfort they have when speaking it. But you can’t help the flush your face feels and the guilt nibbling at your insides telling you to calm down. 

 

The feeling immediately fades when Alexander smiles at you with a smile just as bashful as yours, albeit for different reasons but just as genuine. 

 

“ Well, I think that is amazing, John,” Alexander stops to clear his throat here, also, by the looks of it, trying to determine what to say next, “I honestly had no idea you’re bilingual but now that I do that just makes knowing you all the more fun now. Makes it easier too, I suppose; translating inside jokes is such a pain in the ass, you know?” He turned to Gilbert at that last statement, nudging him with his elbow. 

 

“One time I do not understand American speak it is because you have this joke I was meant to know. I have been here for eight months and you betray me so. But yes, John, what he said, it is uh, helpful for lack of better English, that you are bilingual? Yes, that you are bilingual that is it.” Gilbert’s extremely animated when he talks you quickly gather from his swinging hands. You’re curious now about what he meant about one time he didn’t understand a joke but that’s for another time if you do keep in touch with him or become better acquainted with him. 

 

“Oh, I’m not bilingual. I mean I speak more than just one language, yes, but I’m not bilingual. I know German, some Polish from my friend, Italian, Spanish, Latin, and the slightest bit of Greek? Yeah, those are all I can remember.” At some point, you had started counting on your fingers to see if you had them all. You realize you sound somewhat pretentious yourself but you wanted to avoid any more language mishaps.You never know what someone speaks other than English (if that is what they know). 

 

“ _ Wow _ .” Gilbert’s got that face Frances makes when she learns something new; wide eyes and making a small ‘O’ with her mouth, eyebrows creeping up to her hairline as she stares, completely transfixed. 

 

Except Gilbert is a grown man with choppy bronze hair and drowning in his freckles, with legs and arms too long for his own good. And currently just gawking at you from beside Alexander. 

 

And Alexander, Alexander whose face is damn near unreadable except for the beginnings of a smirk. That’s all it takes for you to short-circuit and claw at straws to try and save this--this  _ mess _ . 

 

“I read a lot of books when I was younger, so.” Your awkward attempt at saving yourself and making things less tense and, for lack of a better word, awkward and uncomfortable is as pathetic as you are. 

 

“You read and speak all these languages; John Laurens, a man truly after my own heart. What’s next, you lived in France or something?” You know he’s joking, you know he’s  _ joking around with you _ , but you can’t help the acacia blossoms swelling inside of you. 

 

‘ _ A man truly after my own heart. _ ’ He means nothing by it, surely. Just teasing, that’s what friends do. They tease each other. Except, are you friends? Can you even call him your friend though? Sure, he introduced you as such to Gilbert but you’ve just met him really, he was probably just saying that because it’s easier than ‘Hello meet this man who I met the other day at his daughter’s birthday party and just got his number  _ only hours ago _ .’

 

But the two of you had talked for quite a bit, do know something about each other to be able to claim to be more than  _ just _ acquaintances or ‘two people who met just the other day and only just began actual conversations not even a day ago.’ You feel as though you can call him a friend, after all he does know more about you than just some guy on the street which is something friends know, right? He knows your first and last name and your daughter’s name is something, has to count. 

 

Before you can allow yourself to become entangled in a mess of emotional vines and trapped in the roots of anxiety, Alexander’s hand is on your arm, gripping just enough to be more than just some brief form of contact. It’s comforting you find. 

 

“Ah, haha yeah. I mean, yes? I just, hey do you want coffee? We can, we can-can uh, get coffee?”

 

Nice one, Jacky.

 

Alexander smiles and the anxiety melts away completely now, azaleas blooming in your chest and cheeks, the world no longer filled with throng vines of panic but now his warm smile and hand on your arm. It’s nice and familiar to you, grounding. 

 

“Right, right, forgot that that’s what I dragged you out here for. Coffee and, okay well I guess it’s lunch now so I can’t be snooty and call it ‘brunch’ anymore. But yeah, our friend Gilbert here is giving us free food because he loves me and also because he owes me for all the English lessons this kid puts me through. He’s convinced Virginia has an ‘e’ somewhere it in but hey it’s better than his spelling with three A's and two h’s.” Sweet salvation spoken in his words. Alexander’s loquacious habit has saved you from humiliation and you’re grateful he’s here. You’ve practically just met him and you are finding you’re grateful for a lot of things he does; grateful he’s here with you at this very moment the most, you think. 

 

Gilbert groans, already distracted with this new topic, your humiliating words and awkward stance forgotten by now. 

 

Said Frenchman is jumping back behind the counter and leisurely waves for the two of you to follow after him. It's a new and odd feeling for you, to be beckoned to the back of a counter at a cafe. You’ve never really had a job similar in any way shape or form to this nor have you ever been friends with someone who has a behind the counter job. Nor have you been friends with an obviously wealthy twenty-something-year-old who just so happens to own a cafe after moving here, nine or more months ago? The three of you had just talked about it a short while ago and yet the exact time he’s been here flees from the hand grasping at the memory desperately trying to recall it. 

 

Alexander tugging at your hand and pulling you after him as he follows Gilbert seems to drag you out of your reverie, adding a blinding explosion of color around you at the sudden contact and motion. His hands are warm and finger long and thin, you can almost imagine him at the firm he works at, pulling out files and papers, turning the pages of some thick book on law with those nimble fingers of his, hands seemingly warmer to contrast the cool pages of the book. You can also imagine those fingers intertwined along yours, palms flush against each other and the two of you are holding hands, his warm hands enveloping your cool ones, long thin fingers complementing your swollen ones. 

 

It's a nice fantasy to distract you from the man holding onto your hand despite the fact that the three of you have already reached the kitchens and have been there a minute now, Gilbert rambling off foods to Alexander with a tired looking chef next to him. A nice pleasant yet teasing fabrication from your head that clings to the back of your mind, despite the fact that it’s been a few minutes or maybe more and Gilbert’s taking the two of you to his office to eat and talk. 

 

Alexander’s still holding onto your hand as the three of you enter the office, still holding onto your hand as you sit beside each other on the couch. Still holding your hand even as Gilbert passes out coffee and muffins and bagels, still holding your hand,  _ holding your hand. Alexander Hamilton is holding your hand.  _

 

The world seems too bright for a moment with too many colors and filled with too many flowers, too many azaleas, too many tulips and roses and snapdragon and you’re drowning in acacias, their smell so sweet yet bitter like coffee and- 

 

Coffee. You’re getting coffee with Alexander and his friend. His friend who is now your friend by association. Coffee. Yes, right, coffee with  _ friends,  _ friends who don’t see azaleas and tulips everywhere he looks, friends who don’t dwell on how nice Alexander’s hand feels in yours, long fingers holding onto you with a strong grip that isn’t too harsh but rather secure and comforting and you’re thinking too much about his hands now and friends don’t do that,  _ stop it _ . 

 

Alexander’s hand slips out of yours, quiet and discreet, wrapping around his cup of coffee and bringing it up to his lips. Lips pink from the hot coffee, his upper lip still curved in a smile, that impish and flirty smile that seems forever gracing his lips. 

 

You have to look away, you know you’re too weak and will just continue to stare and end up losing yourself in him again, drowning in the captivating dark blue of his eyes, drowning in the titillating words he spews that take on form and wrap around you just as his hand had earlier. 

 

You must have been so lost in thought you didn’t hear Gilbert call your name twice and clear his throat till he leans over to tap your shoulder. 

 

“John are you okay, my friend? You seemed to losing yourself in thought.” His English could still use some work but you understand him well enough. 

 

“I’m fine, just thinking. It smells nice, sweet. Oh, and thanks for the free coffee and bagel. I don't need to pay you back?” You know that’s a lie, you weren’t “just thinking”, you weren’t pondering paying back Gilbert nor were you taking in the smell of Gilbert’s office. You were lost in Alexander but you could never tell him that, never confess to that in front of the man plaguing your thoughts. So you have a little white lie to cover up, to save yourself. And you pray the two of them believe it. 

 

Gilbert chuckles, smiling even as he shakes his head. 

 

“Non, friends eat free. Plus I have too much money than I know what to do with. The burden,  _ did I use that right _ ,” Gilbert turned to Alexander and leaned towards him to ask that small bit, smiling when he gets a thumbs up, “ yes, the burden of too much inheritance can do that. So friends are free to feed themselves, just uh, with caution? No just taking when I am not present, that may come off as thieving to some.”

 

The Frenchman has known you for maybe an hour now and has warmed up to you so that he has offered not only this free coffee and bagel but also free food and drink here whenever so long as he is present. Your caffeine-addled brain is excited at this, though at Alexander’s knowing smirk, he must have known this before seeing as how he’s known Gilbert longer than you, your caffeine-addled brain leaps and is made giddy. Honestly, his smirks should be made criminal at the feeling they give you,  _ and you just barely know him.  _

 

_ Lord, how are you  _ ever _ going to last?   _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Red Carnations: romantic feelings, 'My heart aches for you', feelings of adoration   
> Pink Roses: Happiness, pure unadulterated joy
> 
> I'm so sorry again for taking so long, I've just been having SO MUCH go on lately with school and grades but this semester is finally ending and my winter break is starting today and I should have more time to write. I already have a few future chapters for this done actually, they just need to be edited and given titles and such, just some finishing touches before I bestow you lovely fellows with my medicore writing. Comments help me do more ;0


	10. Peony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A failure in the past is and always will be a failure in John's mind, nothing ever seems perfect. 
> 
> John hates himself, and he feels nothing can change that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWTWTWTWTWTWTWTW Imagine me dabbing to each 'TW' but TW for lOTS of things  
> Death and mentions of it, Anxiety, Depression, Suicide mentions, thoughts of it, Panic Attack, Flashbacks, Daddy Issues, Family Issues, Identity issues, self-loathing, you get the picture
> 
> I was having an Episode when this was written and Leslie I love youuuuuu for reading this thank you ilysmmm <33
> 
> But here is another chapter feat. the Aftermath of the Meet'n'Greet

You made a flimsy excuse and went home after about an hour of that; that being an hour of blushing and laughing and exchanging stories and jokes with both Gilbert and Alexander, desperately trying to keep the coffee in and not spit it everywhere when Gilbert said something particularly funny or when Alexander lashed a scathing yet lighthearted and not really malicious joke in return. 

 

During all of that, you learned quite a bit about both Alexander and Gilbert. 

 

You learned Alexander seemed to talk more and more with every sip from his steaming cup, waved his hands faster after every sip and his words even sped up in pacing. It was really an experience to witness him actually bringing himself up to and work himself to full awareness and become fully awake and ready for the day, despite it having already started hours ago. 

 

Almost as though because of that last bit, Alexander also seemed to have a growing sense of “I do whatever I want no matter what anyone else says” that grew as the coffee in his cup dwindled. 

 

You also learned in that hour or so that despite the three of you being inside of Gilbert’s private office space in the back of the cafe, Alexander’s loud mouth still managed to be heard by patrons even through all the walls, had a chef even come in to ask him to relax and calm down. Of course, his response to this was to talk louder and of course, your reaction was to go red and stare with wide eyes at the amazing sight that is an assertive and stupidly stubborn Alexander that only further worked to make him even more endearing.  

 

You think you might’ve basked in the glory that is Alexander and his intense personality a bit too much because your French companion nudged you with his sharp elbow and winked at you with a knowing glint in his hazel eyes. Your face had heated up and you looked away too quickly Alexander had to have noticed. Dammit.

 

Damn him and his oddly good ability to read people. Or perhaps it's you who has the true fault in this situation, in which case damn you for being so transparent. 

 

Now while on the topic of Gilbert, you’ve also learned quite a bit about the young man in the time you spent with the two of them in his cafe of sorts. You learned Gilbert is an orphan, has been since he was very young, with too much inheritance to know what to do with it and too much free time on his freckled hands. The combination is of course dreadfully entertaining. 

 

He ran away one day on a whim, dressed as a woman and everything to keep people from recognizing him, and snuck onto a plane to America. He did all of this for a reason he claims is legitimate and good and reasonable and Alexander calls impulsive, foolish, and hilariously ironic. To put it simply, Gilbert ran away from the rich wealthy shining gold life he had in beautiful France to live in a studio apartment in Pennsylvania with a limit on how much he can now spend as a punishment for running off. All of this for the whole “American experience” of going to an “American” university and engage in American culture he finds himself oh so fascinated with. According to the Frenchman, America is an amazing country ripe with opportunity and glory for those who seek it. You have to disagree; honestly what with all of the racial issues going on even after two hundred and some years, you wouldn’t dub your country as glorious and amazing as he does but you also wouldn’t want to dampen his idealistic and cheerful outlook on the world. 

 

On a more positive topic, you were told the story of how he came to own this cafe: on a drunken dare. Turns out he bought it when someone told him they bet he couldn’t afford one, that he is as broke as every other college student in the area, to which the impulsive twentyone-year-old responded with  _ buying a cafe _ . Why he didn’t sell it back like anyone else would  was actually quite simple, stupid and poorly thought out and just downright ridiculous, but simple: he didn’t know enough English to sell it back to the unfortunately English-speaking only realtors and kept spouting insulting gibberish in broken English to the man whom he had bought it from, the poor Frenchman having not known enough English to realize what exactly it was he was spouting. 

 

A month later, stressed with schoolwork and tests and college life, he met Alexander, his fierce angel who fell from the skies he claims, who helped him organize everything and hire someone else to run the cafe while Gilbert lounges around in his office, drinking too much tea and hoarding the pastries and lunches on the rare occasion he leaves it. You also learned it was around that time Alexander earned his title of “Little Lion”. 

 

The story is about as wild as the two men in front of you who were involved in it so it didn’t take much convincing for you to believe them. Though you must admit, Gilbert’s English is doing much better now. He can have conversations and now knows what is deemed appropriate to say to someone in conversation which sounds like a huge improvement especially for only a few months. He’s doing good. 

 

You watched as his freckles disappeared once again, lost in his blush when you told him this. Alexander just puffed out his chest, knowing no humility it seems and taking pride in teaching the mass of nerves and freckles how to sound like an adult who can speak English well enough for a grown man. 

 

Their dynamic is probably the oddest you’ve come across but it seems that because it’s so odd it works out so perfectly. It makes as little sense as those two do but perfect sense as well. Honestly, those two are walking contradictions and you find yourself adoring it. 

 

On the train ride back to your apartment, once you delivered your flimsy excuse and left Alexander and Gilbert at the cafe, you took the time to let a breath out and get a hold of your bearings. Despite having only talked to the two of them you are worn out and exhausted from it, wanting nothing more than to lie down or perhaps take a bath and then lie down. As much as you loved being with those two, you feel as though it was too much for you today, too much talking and smiling, too much staring and joking and just too much everything. 

 

All of your actions and conversations and the effort everything took is flooding you now, drowning you in the residual anxiety you pushed down before in order to socialize as you had. 

 

With every jerk that comes with each stop, you can  _ feel _ the nerves and bad thoughts creeping up on you and rooting themselves, taking place in your head with strong roots and refusing to be uprooted and removed. You feel them spread like some weed taking over an abandoned garden, feel the dread and exhaustion wrap around your chest and throat. 

 

By the time you reach your stop, you feel as though you’re covered in twisting vines whose thorns poke and prod at you, whose roots dig into your skin and firmly plant themselves deep inside and latch on. It takes all you have to drag yourself out of the train and onto the platform, trudge up the stairs and onto the sidewalk where you have to push past people to get to your apartment. 

 

The day isn’t over, in fact, you feel it's barely even begun, and you already regret getting up this morning. 

 

—

 

You reached the safety of your home and currently find yourself in the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror and staring the reflection you feel isn’t entirely yours. The tile is cold underneath your bare feet and the towel you wear loosely on your hips is too rough and yet worn due to its use over time. Your hair is tied up in a messy bun and your eyes look tired despite all the caffeine you had. Your blue eyes, normally brighter than this, are now dull and just so  _ tired _ . You look in the mirror and don’t see yourself. You stand there and you can feel the cold tiles and the worn old towel rough against your skin but you don’t  _ feel _ entirely there. You see your eyes and don’t feel here in the moment. 

 

There’s water falling from the faucet, filling the tub with hot warm water you hope will snap you out of this depressive reverie. The morning had gone good enough you hoped you could keep your mind at peace, hoped you have a day where you could go to bed at the end of the day and say “I didn’t want to die and it was good doing this,” but you guess those days don’t exist for you. Those days stopped existing for you really, they ended when your mother died and with it, that childish belief that the world is good, ceased to exist at all when James passed away and it was  _ all your fault _ . They weren’t there when Francis left you with a sticky note and tore your heart to pieces in the short sentences he left for you or when you married Martha and signed away your freedom to love. They weren’t there when she died either and took all you had with her, your feelings buried six feet underground and kept in her cold hands. They didn’t exist when you begged your father to keep you from interning at his law firm in exchange for raising Frances in the states, the daughter you never really had taken the time to know before then. 

 

They weren’t there before so why would they be here now? It was foolish of you to hope otherwise, it was dumb and stupid and  _ God _ , how dumb do you have to be to think “Maybe today will be different, John.” How dumb must you really be to even fathom the thought that maybe things would go in your favor and you didn’t just parade into that cafe and make an even bigger fool of yourself? 

 

You feel yourself slipping and suddenly you’re 14 again and your father’s called you into his study. You didn’t complete your homework on time and your teacher gave you a fifty, the fifty being the highest grade you can receive for tardy work. And then, you being you, stood up all night to finish it and then waited three days to turn it in because anxiety got the best of you. It disappoints your father and he has no qualms about telling you such, threatening to withhold love and affection because it might’ve made you soft, might’ve fooled you into some false sense of laziness. No one wants a failure to be their friend, maybe that’s why you failed. That’s why you never cease to find new ways to disappoint your father. No one would be friends with some boy who fails at a simple assignment and isn’t even smart enough to turn it in on the right day when he finishes it. You, Jack Laurens, are a fool who can’t even do something as simple as turn in work. 

 

Your father’s biting words hurt more than a belt could have and you’re sent away, to stay out of his sight till you bring your grade up. Your mother gives you sympathetic looks from her chair in the sitting room but you don’t see them. All you can see is the ‘F’ you now have and the disappointment in your father’s icy blue eyes. 

 

Your mother always did say you had his eyes, bits of the ocean stolen away and trapped in your eyes. Clear blue waters framed by blond lashes. 

 

The tub is still being filled with water and it’s the creaking of the faucet that grounds you to now rather than the past. You were going to take a bath, right. 

 

You climb into the tub and lazily turn the faucet off with your feet, crack your neck quickly and then sink your head under the water and just stay there for a minute or two, the numb feeling and weightlessness the water provides a welcome feeling in a sea of painful thoughts. You wonder if the numb and empty feeling shows in your eyes, what shade of blue they’ve turned to reflect that feeling. 

 

You can hear nothing, the house is quiet with not even the rush of water anymore and yet you can hear the muted voice of your father berating you for such foolish thoughts and hopes. You can hear his disappointment and frustration and you can almost hear Alexander laughing at it all. Your father is right, as he always is, and you don’t know why you didn’t just stay home. Besides, you don’t get happy days with a handsome man and his friend with free coffee and warm hands on yours. You aren’t allowed that happiness, aren’t allowed that warm feeling of being wanted, and you’re foolish to have thought otherwise. 

 

You can't hold friends nor are you even a good one, why would you ever feel even for a minute you could have them. You really are a fool. You bet Gilbert and Alexander are laughing at you now, taunting and mocking you behind your back, belittling you and making a joke out of the southern senator’s son. You sink further into the water, hope if you stay there no one can notice the tears slipping from your eyes and mixing in with the water. 

 

Purple hyacinths and ivy seems to float above the water, lilies crowding around you, pushing closer and closer to you till they push into your mouth and fill your throat. You float in a pool now, weightless and unfeeling, petals pushing up to your sides every few seconds and you find you’re filled with nothing but emptiness and flowers now, nothing but another pot to hold these cruel truths. You are nothing but a pot of rotten soil and dirty petals. Peonies dripping with inky shame pull apart a single blue iris in the sky and you go numb with an alarming and painfully true realization. 

 

You are John Laurens and it was stupid of you to think even for a moment Alexander liked someone like you. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peony: Shame  
> (It can also mean Gay Life I'm assuming they mean happy as a synonym for gay but it could fit for here as well but I feel like that's mean even for me, I did a separate fic for that ok that self-hate rooted in sexuality is elsewhere for now)
> 
> Mhmhmhmhmhmmm I told y'all I have some done for y'all, and so here it is ;0


	11. Blue Iris (a comeback lol)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drip Drip Drip
> 
> Memories come to surface, bad thoughts take the lead. John is having a hard time, but he has support now, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays, I told y'all I'd come in C L U T C H
> 
> (Thank you, beautiful Leslie, my light, my life, my love, my heart, for looking at my writing <33)
> 
> But here is another chapter!! Now some TWs for the start of this: Depression, dissociation, anxiety, anxiety/panic attack, crying, repressing emotions, self-destructive thoughts and behavior, PTSD PTSD PTSD PTSD, flashbacks, trauma, death, mentions of death, mentions of religion, recovering after a bad episode
> 
> If i misses anything anyone needs to be warned of in here please say something I don't wanna be That Guy ok

You picked up Frances just like you always do that day; pulled up in the line in the car your father had given you and waited till she was released, waited for the bell and the hoard of children to file out, spotted your daughter’s curly head amongst the crowd and helped her put her things in the back and buckle her into her little car seat when she got to your car and then drove the two of you home. Just the two of you. Just like always. 

 

It felt normal, felt like just any other day really, but the heavy feeling in your chest and the sharp pain behind your eyes that meant you were going to cry any second now wasn’t quite part of your usual pickup, no, it wasn’t part of any other ‘normal’ day. 

 

To make it worse, you knew you looked off too, hands gripping the steering wheel a bit harder than really necessary and sniffling as though you had some kind of cold or flu. It wasn’t even flu season, your pathetic feelings were just bothering you, like some kind of itchy tag on a shirt you couldn’t just cut out, it was  _ there _ and hurt you and bothered you and  _ why couldn’t it just leave you alone, dammit. _

 

Your eyes felt like an wanted guest in your house the tears that poked at the corners of your eyes the mud tracks they left behind. Looking in the mirror above you could see the red rims under your eyes, the shine they had just before you broke down. Behind you, you see Frances and her worried big eyes and that’s all it takes for you to avoid looking back, to avoid looking back and seeing her there staring at you and lost because her pathetic father is a sniffling mess. 

 

Aside from your sniffles and the soft thud of her bookbag when you turn, the car ride is silent, not even Frances saying anything. She knows by now, knows when you get in moods like this, to not say much to you or touch you; and yet despite her knowing she never stops worrying, never stops giving you those big-eyed concerned looks she is too young to give. You remember when you first got custody of her and she made the mistake of pulling on your arm over and over, calling your name over and over and babbling about some stuffed animal she wanted and you panicked, broke down right in front of your daughter and made her feel as though it was her fault she has such a sad excuse for a father. 

 

You can never forget the look on her face when you yelled for her to leave you alone, the look she had when he backed away and started crying. You can never forget or shake off the guilt that tears at your arms late at night and scratches red angry lines for you to find the next morning.

 

It’s not her fault, it’s not her fault and you know it and you tell her so every time you can, every chance you get that it isn’t her fault. In all honesty, she deserves more than you, so much more. She deserves better too, deserves a father who can pick her up from school and better interact with her, a father who can talk to her without feeling guilty, without hating himself. Deserves a father who won’t cry in front of his daughter and rather ask her about school or play her favorite songs on the radio. 

 

She deserves a mother too and you’ll never be able to give her that without hurting yourself in the process. You’ll never be able to give her back the mother she lost either. 

 

You, John Laurens, are a failure of a father and you haven’t even been one for too long. 

  
  


At home you find a multitude of messages waiting for you on your phone that you had left buried somewhere in your covers, the screen lighting up and making reflections of light to dance across your covers. You just turn your phone off without checking it and set it somewhere you won’t see until later, high up on a shelf maybe, perhaps in the kitchen inside a cabinet. You won’t remember in an hour so it doesn’t matter much. 

 

Frances leaves to play games in her room, what games you have no clue because you’re a terrible father who can’t even play with his own daughter because he’s incompetent. 

 

You hear her laughs and various voice impressions from all the way in your bathroom, hear her giggling and having fun. The apartment is silent aside from her. It’s too quiet and the quiet is starting to gnaw at your already frayed nerves. 

 

Standing in front of the sink you stare at your sad reflection, see your tired eyes and the red rims surrounding them. You haven’t even cried yet, just held them in and kept the tears hidden but you assume the effort you exert there probably caused the redness. Your hair is messed up, you hadn’t attempted to fix it after you had met Alexander and Gilbert, blond strands sticking out from every which way and tangling themselves into knots. You discover you don’t like looking at your face, though in truth this is a revelation you have not ‘just discovered’ but something you’ve known since before middle school. 

 

You twist the knobs and listen to the water pour from the faucet, disturbing the crushing silence of your apartment. You shove your hands under the warm water, let them stay there for a moment and just let the water wash over your tainted hands. 

 

You’re reminded of the time when you were younger, when you lived with both your mom and dad before she died, before Francis came and  _ broke _ you and your naive optimism, before Martha came to you, before your life took a turn that you’d never quite recover from. You’re reminded of a time when you were dragged along to Sunday mass early in the mornings every Sunday, shoved into stuffy and stiff Sunday best and holding onto your siblings. You’re reminded of the holy water your mom would brush onto your forehead before even entered the church, brushing crosses onto you and your siblings’ foreheads and repeating  _ “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,”  _ with each child. No one comments on how she lingers on the youngest, no one mentions how she whispers an extra prayer for the baby.

 

The seven of you, both your parents and your four siblings and you, would sit near the front, a pew near-empty just for your family. As everyone walked towards your usual seat, there would be people bowing and shaking your father hand, smiling wide and blessing your family, excited to meet the Senator and his beautiful family. 

 

They didn’t know, no one who wasn’t family knew, but the seven of you that showed up to church wasn’t the whole family. There were others, other siblings three older and two younger, who hadn’t made it to Sunday mass. Eleanor, the first one who had been named after your mother, Ann Elizabeth whose cries no one ever got to hear, Henry, the first son to be named after your father, who was there and then not there just as quickly as he had come, a baby who never even got to be named because they were taken too soon,  _ much too early _ for anyone to even announce and properly mourn. Elias, Eleanor the third’s twin brother who never made it past the week, never even made it to his first baptism. 

 

No one could tell looking at you and your four siblings, you, Eleanor the third, Martha, Harry, and James, that there were all these missing kids taken from your dear parents. No one knew that later that same year Eleanor would be taken from you as well and Samuel would be born two months after, stillborn. 

 

None of these people smiling at your father and shaking his hand with such reverence you’d think  _ he _ was the priest, none of these strangers knew the pain and loss your family had. None of them knew how your mother would cry for days with the passing of each child, how she would sneak into the room of the surviving ones and watch over them in the night, cautious of their health and watching, careful to make sure they safely lived through the night. None of them knew how your father would count each of you every time all of you gathered for breakfast each morning, eyes growing sad and distant when there was one less head to tally up. 

 

The church never knew of the misfortune and death that plagued your family, never heard even a whisper of what happened behind the closed doors of your home. They didn’t know until your family of seven became six with five kids and just your father. That day the handshakes and big  _ fake _ smiles turned to looks of sympathy and  _ pity _ that hurt more than any judging look ever could. 

 

When the priest, towards the end of mass, announced there was one less woman of faith in this parish, one less woman here with us today, you broke down in tears and left before he could tell the world of your sweet mother’s passing, left your sister Martha with the crying baby your mother died to give life to. James, poor James all too young to know and fully understand what was happening, called after you. Your tired father hadn’t even the energy to quiet him, just softly cried as the room around him was given notice of his beautiful and kid wife’s passing. 

 

You remember running past the fountain filled to the golden brim with holy water and kicking it, breaking it and watching as cloudy water spilled all over the mosaic of the floor. Pictures of saints on the walls looked down on you scornfully, eyes burning into your Sunday best. You collapsed there into the puddle of holy water and cried, let the whole church, the whole world hear your anguish.

 

Ice cold water spills over your hands, overflowing in the little cup your hands made and pouring over; you must’ve been standing there too long, too lost in thought and too caught up in some flashback to pay attention to the sink. 

 

You lean down and, almost reverently, as though you’re sixteen again going to Sunday mass and taking holy water, cup your hands till the water’s filled them up and bring it up to your face. You take a deep breath before letting the water wash over you and drip down your face, water droplets racing down your cheeks and falling from your chin. 

 

The water is cold and while it helps in waking you up and getting you to open your eyes more, it doesn’t work in the sense that you hoped it would; it doesn’t ground you like you thought it would have. It only served to bring you further away from now and drag you deeper into your head, dulling your surroundings till Frances’ laughs were nothing but distant echoes. 

 

You stand at the sink and grip the edges, leaning over the porcelain and feeling the water fall from your face. It takes you a moment longer than you’d like to admit to realize you started crying and all those drops of water aren’t just from the sink but from you yourself. You angrily wipe at your face with still wet hands and let out a groan of frustration when you remember your hand is  _ wet _ and your face also  _ wet _ and wiping your  _ wet _ hand on your  _ wet _ face won’t solve anything and are you  _ really _ this stupid, really this pathetic? Your six-year-old daughter knows better than you, knows better than a grown ass man and knows that when you want to dry your face, rid yourself of any trace of your dumb stupid tears because men don’t cry they don’t cry or feel sorry for themselves or whine like some two-year-old. Men don’t cry and Laurens men certainly don’t cry, much less show such weakness and vulnerability. 

 

You dry your face with an actual towel now, a bit too rough maybe but you deserve it. After all, you are crying over nothing but old memories and long gone family you’ll never get back. Why cry when it solves nothing and just leaves you feeling more sad and angry than before?

 

Sinking to the floor you sit with your back to the wall and your butt on the hard tile. You give yourself time to breathe, time to just patch yourself up and seal away the memories that seem to drip from a crack in the bottles you shove them deep inside. Give yourself a cool down period where you just  _ breathe _ and try to reign everything back in and just calm down. 

 

Sitting there, you’re reminded of times when you were younger, maybe around five, and you’d climb trees with your older brother Henry, the one who died later that year but you’d rather remember the happier and more simple times. The two of you would climb the big angel oak trees and hang from the huge thick branches and jump from one to another. He’d urge you to climb higher and higher, see if you could reach the top. 

 

Even when he got sick and couldn’t climb up with you and you would have to help him onto a lower branch to sit and cheer you on, he’d still shout from the bottom and watch you as you climbed further and further. 

 

But you were just five and eventually, you did reach the top of the tree and the view terrified you. You felt sick and like you reached a place you weren’t supposed to reach, like you wandered into a dangerous area and were left alone in it. And Henry wasn’t there to stand next to you to top it all off, he was sitting somewhere way below you, voice far off and distant, his shouts reduced to whispers trapped inside the winds that beat against straggling branches. You remember looking down, large blue eyes cast downward to look at your progress and revel in it despite the harshness of the end goal, but you felt nothing good when you looked down. Rather you felt the color drain from you and your stomach fall, branches shaking as the organ tumbled lower and lower till it hit the ground. You were spinning, dizzy again and unsure what was happening and where you were and what to do. Henry’s yelling asking if you were alright fell on deaf ears and your finger grew sweaty around the thick branches they clung onto. 

 

That feeling as a terrified five-year-old much resembled the one you felt earlier, the feeling of cold and unrelenting unfamiliarity and dizziness and nothing good to come about it. 

 

But you’re over that now, aren’t you? You’re climbing down, branch by branch, following Henry’s voice as he calls out to you from below, not taking your eyes off the tree and where you step and grab hold of. You’re getting over this and making it through and cleaning yourself up. When you reach the ground and feel the tall grass brush against your legs and Henry’s thin arms wrap around you feel empty now, like all of your energy and everything you felt was drained out of you during your initial panic and left you with nothing but aching limbs and wide eyes. 

 

Which all leads back to now, the present day you much older than five without the protection of Henry and his words of encouragement. You’re just you now with all your responsibilities and sitting on the floor of your bathroom, still dressed as though Alexander was still there smiling at you from over his coffee and spouting countless jokes in French, his leg pressed close to yours. 

 

Taking a deep breath for what feels like the thousandth time by now, you push off of the floor and lean over the sink again and look into the mirror at yourself. Your eyes are red-rimmed and puffy and your hair shows obvious signs you’ve run your fingers through them. If you added twigs and leaves and scrapes all over your arms and legs you could be five again and climbing down with trembling legs, slowly making your way back down to Henry. The feeling is same really, anxiety becoming numbness and the need to clean yourself up. 

 

God, you are a mess. You sigh and wash your face, warm water now again, and try and make yourself look calm and okay and just  _ functional _ like you’re supposed to be. Once you’ve finished, you look less like a mess and yet your eyes are still a bit red but that can’t be helped it seems. Turning around and reaching out for a towel, you dry your face and are met with slight disappointment when the soft fabric and fluffy feel of it brings you no comfort or soothe your frayed mind, yet the feeling has no big effect on your already dampened mood. 

 

You take your time in brushing your hair and pulling it into a bun, not caring much if strands fall loosely around your face since you are home and Frances wouldn’t mind. She’s a good child and the sweetest thing ever, kind and understanding even for her age. You have no idea where she gets it from, you can’t be that good of a parent you just ran away from her to  _ cry _ for God’s sake in the bathroom and sob like some child. Perhaps it was her mother, dear Martha,  but they barely had any time together before Martha died, Frances was only four months old when it happened. 

 

You shake your head, this is too much thinking after coming down from such an episode, too many thoughts and you’d rather not have them surround Frances’ mother, you’d rather not think about her. 

 

_ Get over yourself, _ is all you can hear inside your head as you finally leave the bathroom and drag yourself to the kitchen. You should be a decent father and make her some food, a nice dinner to make up for being such a failure. Maybe a dessert if you have anything for it? 

 

Deep in thought trying to evaluate which dinner is good for a six-year-old  _ and _ an I’m-Sorry meal, you hear her. 

 

“Papa,  _ Papa Papa Papa Papa- _ ” Frances is calling your name as she barrels into your legs and holds on with her small hands, a surprisingly strong grip for such a young girl. 

 

“Papa! Can I have snack” Your lips twitch with a grin when she says “snack,” her voice still sounding like a baby’s somewhat and the word sounding more like ‘nack’ rather than snack. Her big blue eyes look up at you from where she’s wrapped around your shins and her little lips outing and  _ your heart swells and drops at the same time. _ God, how can you tell her  _ no _ how can you refuse her something like this, when she’s looking at you like that?

 

“You know what, sweet one, I was just going to start making some dinner, but would you like to help me,” You pull her off and bend down to get on her level, “May I be oh so  _ blessed _ to have you help me, Madam?” You make a show of holding out your hand for hers, so much bigger than her tiny little hand she could wrap her entire hand around just one finger. 

 

Her eyes go wide and she smiles with all her teeth, or at least the ones that she still has, and she grabs your hand in her tiny ones and bounces on her little feet, the sound muffled by her fuzzy little socks. 

 

“ _ Yes! _ I wanna be the Chef, Papa, can we have noodles please, Papa, please noodles! I’m the chef today so can I make noodles with you?” She does the face again and  _ God _ , you melt all over again. 

 

“Of course we can Chef Laurens, noodles coming right up, my dear.” Your voice sounds happy and foreign and yet it sounds  _ you _ , and it’s so different from how you were minutes ago. It’s nice, and you’re thankful for your daughter and glad she’s here. She’s such a ray of light that just radiates happiness it feels impossible to be anything but content and happy around her. 

 

You pick her up to reach the higher spots and get some ingredients, her face bright and mouth moving a mile a minute as she rambles about her “cooking show.” You’re reminded of Alexander and the seemingly endless words that fall from his lips, like a stream of water going on and on with a current you can’t help but get caught in, the water warm and nice to bathe in for hours and hours. Words as smooth as silk wrapping and surrounding you, soft and yet so  _ there _ you can’t help but realize that you’re surrounded but the feeling is so good, so comforting on your skin you just pull the silk tighter and tighter around yourself till the fabric is nice and taut. You let your eyes close for a moment as you imagine the feeling, a small smile dancing on your lips and teasing yourself, an almost smile really, not quite there-

 

“Papa your phone. It’s glowing,  _ Papa, regarde! _ ” She’s pulling at your shirt and you’re snapped out of your thoughts. Your what- Oh,  _ oh yes, right _ , your phone. You had honestly forgotten all about it. You should probably check it. 

 

“Merci, thank you, Frannie, give Papa a minute to check it, hm? You can organize things, yeah?” You sound a little far away, the effects of daydreaming having not yet left you. You set her down and she runs around putting things in one area, hair bouncing around her head. 

 

Your phone reads 12 new messages from Alexander and four from two of your siblings, Harry and Marty.  _ Shit _ . 

 

Anxiety plants seeds in your chest that start to sprout and curl around your lungs and for a moment breathing feels like a distant memory. Water fills your lungs as the ivy wrapping around them are fed and all you can do is helplessly look at the notifications pile up and there are  _ so many _ other messages and it’s all a lot. You tell Frances you’re taking a quick break and sit at the table and check something and she just salutes you. 

 

You start with Alexander’s messages, the most abundant and the ones that you’d just prefer to get out of the way sooner. The hope that he misses you already or just wants to talk to you again having nothing,  _ nothing at all _ , to do with it. The hope it might help shear away the vines constricting around your throat irrelevant and neither here nor there. 

 

And with that, you open up your messages with him with shaking hands and scroll up to read everything he’s sent. 

 

 **Alexander:** You left kind of early, but no biggie, how are you anyways? I know I have no charm as our French companion but I do wanna hear about how you are after meeting him. I hope he wasn’t like, too much. He’s uh, flamboyant, for lack of better wording, very out there, though not as much as I am, not that I’m like trying to make it a competition just stating some facts, you know? Them #Facts John. 

 

**Alexander:** I resent how I seem to lose my suaveness when talking to you, you know that? You seem to reduce me to some babbling teenager who can’t get his head on right which is weird ‘cause we are both two grown men and yet here I am rambling and typing away as I ignore the gossip Gil spouts across from me because unlike you I didn’t have a nice excuse to leave early and I’m trapped hearing about his weird French friends and some count who has a scandal with some random person he isn’t married to? I’m honestly not sure at this point, but yeah. How are you again? I forget if I asked already lol 

 

**Alexander:** Okay, so it has been like fifteen minutes since I last texted and because I’m like a baby and need constant attention and validation and I wanna look busy and like Gil *isn’t* my only close friend, I’m texting you again.

 

**Alexander:** But really, how’re you? You okay man? Sorry if I’m texting a lot and that’s intimidating I just care and I dunno I guess I just really enjoy our banter and conversations. Talking to you, even on the phone with a screen and too many feet between us, I feel weirdly better than when talking to anyone else, it’s nice and comforting and dare I say *endearing*??? Yes, I dare say. I like to live life on the egg

 

**Alexander:** It’s been twenty minutes and I have just now realized I typed egg rather than edge and I hate myself, the world, the government, Gil, and myself again. Why, why cruel and unforgiving world, have you betrayed me as such? 

 

**Alexander:** I’m over my brooding and back (guess who’s back-back back back again gain gain Alex’s back tell a friend)

 

**Alexander:** Do you think dogs know that they’re dogs? I’m home and at my apartment and I was just chillin’ with my cat like some Cool Guy and the thought just hit me, you know? Like I don’t personally have a dog but I feel like cats know cause they’re so cocky and smart and idk I was just thinking and *do* dogs know they’re dogs? Do they know we’re humans? The real questions…

 

**Alexander:** I sit here, an hour after texting you for like the sixth time? I can’t tell lolol, and seriously Laurens, are you okay?? I mean not to be clingy or whatever cause I’m NOT clingy but are you good? Text me back when you can 

 

**Alexander:** Laurensssssssssssssss

 

**Alexander:** You might be having some family bonding time or whatever but I’m here (still, I know) with my cat except she’s IGNORING ME the AUDACITY cause I didn’t let her into the bathroom when I went which is rude of her like excuse me if I don’t wanna pee in front of you sorry if I have STANDARDS BEE WOW YOU TRAITOR

 

**Alexander:** Text meeeeeeeeeeee give me attentionnnnnn Gil is texting me bad jokes I need someone to laugh at him with meeeeeee

 

**Alexander:** I will marry John Legend one day 

 

That is-- those are a lot of messages and each one so very different and some even laughable oh  _ God, Alexander. _ You let a giggle slip out before you can hold it back, shaking roots and vines from your lungs and you can breathe and this is just  _ amazing _ . 

 

Thoughts of all other messages and notifications fade away and all you can focus on is replying to him and you’re  _ smiling so wide it hurts. _ He answers as soon as you hit send. 

 

**John:** im so sorryyyyy alexander im answering so late, i was busy and i lost my phone and frannie found it in the cabinet and answering is the first thing im doing. Im ok tho, thank you for asking btw. I dont think dogs know theyre dogs, maybe they think theyre the humans and we are the dogs or some other word? I dunno, theyre cute tho OH and tell your cat i say hi even if she being mean lol she sounds cute. And tell me ALL about these bad jokes, its always more fun to judge people with a friend, right?

 

**Alexander:** AND HE LIVESSS!!! Harry Potter WHO? Lmaooo John that is quite possibly the most I have heard from you in one single message, I love it. I told Bee you say hi but she’s being a pain in the ass currently BROODING AWAY like she’s Victor Frankenstein like who does she think she is? It’s 2017 ok girl get with the times.

 

You can’t keep in the laugh that bubbles out from you and just takes over and you feel all the anxiety and nervousness leave, trailing right behind that laugh. Balm of Gilead grows in place of the vines of ivy, red chrysanthemums and cress flooding your vision.  _ Relief _ . 

 

You let him ramble before going back to the kitchen, a smile stuck to your face now as you switch between Frances and cooking and Alexander and texting. If Frances notices any difference she doesn’t show, just bounces around and giggles, waving a (clean, thank God) ladle around and occasionally singing into it. And if you join in and twirl her around, that’s no one's business. If you keep her on your back as the two of you dance while making fettuccine, no one else knows (except Alexander, of course, who laughed when you told him why you were away from the phone for a while.) 

 

When you and Frances sit down to actually eat, a little over two hours after you said the two of you could cook noodles, she’s smiling at you from across the small round table and you see something in her eyes that takes your breath away; blue iris. You’re frozen in place, just watching as your daughter eats and you see  _ beautiful flowers in her eyes. _

 

Your phone goes off just then, vibrating next to your hand just before you picked up your fork. The name doesn’t surprise you but it does seem oddly fitting. Alexander. On a whim, smiling as you do, you decide to change his name in your phone before answering him. 

 

**Blue Iris:** Ok, so like we said, Thursday, same cafe, for lunch? Yes? It’ll just be us even tho Gil’ll be there we can just shoo him away, spray him with water like a dog lol. But yeah, tell me your thoughts, dear Laurens ;)

 

Your chest feels warm and it isn’t the food. Your fingers are light and airy as you respond and the smile you wear is goofy and childish and so pure and genuinely excited. Thursday feels so far away and you want it to come sooner. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The flower means like new hope and beginnings etc, happy happy new fresh start 
> 
> It was chosen for obvious reasons wink wink 
> 
> Sorry it was like hecka sad then happy then sad then happy again hahaha It was actually hard for me to write the happy scenes cause I've been having some BAD episodes lately, it was easy for me to write the sad stuff cause it was just venting really but then the other stuff took me like DAYS and was just hard for me? Yeah, but I hope y'all like it and I didn't do too bad a job! Comments are cool and appreciated, I am cool with being roasted I roast myself all the time too so like it's cool-


	12. Heather Lavender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recollections on a childhood so repressed and pushed back can be a difficult thing, but what's a new friend and support system unable to do? Nothing, the sky is the limit, stretching on and on over fields of endless green. 
> 
> John rethinks his life choices and is in for a shocking surprise, Alexander makes a bold move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now for Content Warnings:  
> Depressive episode, anxiety attack(s), mentions of a dead mother, flashbacks to childhood and bad ways of thinking, internalized homophobia, shameless flirting 
> 
> Be glad I cut this short of the event <3
> 
> FUCK ME SIDEWAYS LOL IM NOT DEAD!! 
> 
> Remember how I said "oh its winterbreak bc that JUST started for me so I'll post more xoxo gossip girl" I am a Liar with a capital L, I'm so sorry I just didn't update for months????? I was in a Bad^TM relationship and trying to recover and then got into a better much much healthier one(s?) Please take my excuse of a Terrible breakup and abusive relationship and just forgive me for putting this off for So Longg
> 
> So that's a plus have that for fun, fresh dose of some uh oversharing

The time it takes for a flower to grow and mature, true it may be that the time varies from the type of flower and the season it is, whether or not the flower can be grown indoors or outdoors, the time a flower takes to grow is one full of changes and new evolutions and experiences.

First, of course, you get a sprout; the seed finally having grown enough to break through the soil and the stem having strengthened enough to stand a little higher, feeling the sun’s sift rays on its green little body as it stands proud and tall. And from there, you wait till the flower grows bigger and bigger until, eventually, it blooms and comes to life before your eyes, bright colors and attracting bees from all around.

Of course it may take some weeks before that happens, maybe a few days more even if the bud is too stubborn and not ready yet to bloom. And then there’s the lifespan the little plant now has till it wilts and eventually dies out, until there’s not much left but a brown shriveled little thing serving as a reminder of what used to be. But until then, blooming is an art and it takes time for any artist to create his masterpiece, and longer so for the world to gaze upon and marvel at its beauty, captivated by the colors.

As one expects, this applies only, really, to those flowers who get past that one week, who’re known to live longer than two in good conditions. Perhaps an orchid or a chrysanthemum rather than flax or daylilies whose lifespan is unfortunately too short on this Earth.

All of this you can recall from childhood, from a time where your mother would sit in her chair outside on the back porch, stomach big and swollen to the point where it was making it harder for her to walk around her garden as she pleases, so she took to directing you around to take care of her precious plants. She told you she didn’t trust the people your father had hired to take care of her garden right and preferred to have you do it and you never complained though you never really did agree with her either. In your eyes, the people your father employed were sweet and caring, smiling at you when they saw you and talking to you like you weren’t a dumb kid. But that was an opinion none of your parents would agree with you on, one you couldn’t change if you tried. So instead you stuck to flowers, the beautiful nature surrounding you.

You love plants and nature but you adore the flowers most of all; it’s your bias. All of their different meanings and colors and smells pulled you in and your mother just encouraged it, going as far as to even tell you to pick a few for your room or have you setup your easel  on the porch so you could practice painting using the most natural and most beautiful models nature had to offer.

Those fond memories bring you back to the present however, sitting on the edge of your bathtub in your apartment late at night on a Friday while you get a bubble bath ready for Frances, filling the tub with flower scented soaps and bubbles and reflect on what’s happened and what is happening.

Lavender tickles the air under your nose and mixes with the steam rolling off in waves above the tub, a sweet and honeyed aroma. If you close your eyes for a moment you could almost be home again in South Carolina, painting next to your mother while she goes on about her flowers, pausing to take a breath and drink water or compliment your brush strokes. Almost.

Similar to flowers, both of your past and of your present, you’ve grown much in the past few weeks. Your friendship with Alexander flourished under the nurturing care of frequent talks in coffee shops and weekly meetings, watered with a dinner every now and then to help it along the way.

After that first day at the cafe, when you left abruptly and suddenly, Alexander had messaged you to check up on how you felt, check in and see if he came on too strong and if so, he would be fine going slower. You had been a mess but smiled at that and chuckled; he sounded like some teenaged boy new to dating, scared he frightened his date. Of course that _definitely_ wasn’t the case, here, you’re a single father who can’t dwell on the complications dating brings about and Alexander wouldn’t be interested in you, you are not exactly what _anyone_ would picture as a “cute couple” for more than the obvious reason. He wouldn’t be interested in you like that anyways, even if you did confess your _peculiar_ tastes to him and he wasn’t scared off.

Reeling yourself back onto the topic at hand and shutting off the water before your bathroom is flooded, you go back to thinking on you and Alexander’s new friendship, his sweetness to you. You confessed you have trouble with new people as of late, it being hard for you to hang around with one person much less _two_ people at the same time. He understood even if he mentioned he couldn’t relate, he would respect it. You adore him for this. For his understanding and how he shows his care for you.

In a way, he’s learned how to help you grow, not over-watering you and drowning your leaves or leaving weeds to grow for too long and eat at your roots, taking care to make sure there’s a stable environment for you to flourish in.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t think of him as the Sun and yourself the flower reaching out for him, having been burnt once before and yet a new leaf has grown, so _cur non_ ? Like Frances has _unfortunately_ learned at school from someone she won’t say and is yelling as she runs around the apartment, yolo.

On the other hand, you’ve learned another thing about Alexander, you’ve realized it is exhilarating in a whole new way to learn more about him. You’ve learned he’s a fast learner and an even better listener despite what most think when he opens his mouth. You found this out one night when you had trouble tucking Frances in, she had caught an absolute fit and refused to sleep alone, and once you had _finally_ managed to get her in bed he called you up and the two of you spoke for hours, voices soft as to not disturb your sleeping child who laid strewn across your lap, snoring with great abandon.

He was surprisingly understanding despite telling you he’s new to being friends with someone with kids, not sure what an ‘indoor voice’ is really, and yet, his voice was so low and soft you nearly fell asleep yourself listening to him. But you didn’t and you mark that as a win, and celebrate a bit, even if you are a bit disappointed, when he stops talking to ask about your day. You told him everything, not holding back any detail no matter how small, knowing by now how much he just seemed to absolutely _live_ for details.

And so from there, a conversation sprouted and you didn’t even know you could talk that long but the two of you spoke all through the night, putting off pausing to get your charger until the battery would no longer put up with your neglect. You opened yourself up to him and he took it all in stride, voice unfaltering and you could _hear_ his smile as you spoke, his, _God_ , his absolute sincerity and genuine interest in what you were saying and how today’s events made you feel.

Things only got better from there.

Your melancholic episodes became less and less frequent, though they didn’t didn’t disappear altogether despite his trying and even if you hoped they would when you were alone at night _but you would never admit to that, no_.

Rather, when they did come to you, they seemed worse than before and lasted longer, almost like they were trying to make up for lost time and prepare for when Alexander would sweep in and help you fight off the bad thoughts. Despite that, he _did_ make you happy and seemed a nice distraction when needed one who is also amazing at grounding you when you need it.

How had Alexander found out about this issue of yours?

It happened only recently, he had stopped by the apartment since he was walking this direction anyways to see a client and had time to kill since he was early, _“For you, always for you, you were worth making them wait, even if I_ was _late, which I’m confident I won’t be_ , _”_ and you hadn’t gotten the door when he rang.

Frances had answered, told him with eyes big as saucers and clutching her bear, how you’re in the bathroom and haven’t been out in a while and she knows you aren’t using it because she heard you crying but you waved her off telling her you only needed a minute but it’s been _this many_ (Alexander later told you she held up four fingers before admitting she doesn’t know how many that was and she “lost count”) minutes and you still haven’t left. When she tried elaborating on how she was concerted (you're sure she must've meant concerned), Alexander told her to go and play while he “gets the old man out of the bathroom.” You heard his heels clicking on the wood floors before he even reached the door.

Alexander had sat outside the bathroom after she told him that, planted himself firmly in front of the door, leaned his forehead against the cold wood and started talking to you with the softest voice you’d ever heard him use before, a feat you thought impossible after that night you spoke on the phone. He sat there for ten minutes straight, just talking to you until you felt stable enough. He helped ground you, pulled you back to the present and out of the swirling pool of bad thoughts you had been drowning in. He waited another five minutes for you to compose yourself and finally leave the bathroom, face red and burning with shame, you were so ashamed, _God_ , so ashamed and _stupid_.

When you walked out his arms were around you before you could look up and apologise, hugging you and holding you close to him and all you could smell were apples and his coconut shampoo and _Alexander_. He told you over and over to not feel ashamed, that it’s okay to feel this way and he wants to be there for you and help in any way he can. He told you feelings are never something to be ashamed of and that he would hold your hand through all the hard times and always be there to help you.

Needless to say, you’ve grown rather fond of him as time passed and you hope and pray, God, do you pray, he feels the same.

* * *

Your phone is ringing, a loud and sudden noise in the dead of night shaking you awake. You rush to get the phone and answer it, not looking at the screen since you're attention is busy elsewhere, worried the noise might be woken Frances up as she sleeps with her head in your lap. _“Bad dreams, Papa,”_ she had told you, climbing in bed next you despite the fact you were still up and drawing something. You had pushed that to the side though in lieu of brushing her hair until she fell asleep and eventually you did too. Until now, maybe two hours later, as your phone wakes you and your daughter, the beast that she is, lays sleeping still, undisturbed and snoring.

“Hey, you there man? I know its it's late and all but I just _had_ to call someone and you were the first person I dialed.” You chuckle quietly, it’s Alexander, of course. Only he would call at ass o'clock in the morning. Ah, you should probably respond to him though, let him know you are indeed “there man.”

“Hmmm, mm yeah, yeah, I'm here. Wassup?” Can you really be blamed for the sleepy and tired way you sound? He laughs on his end, the sound refreshing to your tired ears, helping wake you up a bit.

“Haha, okay that's good, that's good. Anyways, I uh, I was wondering if you're busy tomorrow? I know it's like, a Saturday so Franny was no school and Aaron hasn't scheduled a playdate for the girls lately so I know you might be free but I just wanted to make sure. So, if you're not busy though, ky ramblings aside, is it cool if I take you and the lil’ princess out for dinner? I just had the wildest night, _ever,_ and Gil took me to this place to chill me out and such and it's actually really good and I just need, I _need_ , to show you.” Alexander's voice gives no hint of sleepiness and sounds as beautiful and sharp as ever and you really, _really_ , like it.

“That's cute, you're cute, John. Wow, if I knew you liked my voice I'd talk more just for you.” _Jesus, had you said that aloud? Fuck fuck fuck fuck-_

“Oh my God, Alexander I'm so sorry, I am still like, kind of half asleep gimme like five to six business days to wake up and apologize.” The words fumble out of your mouth, tumbling over each other just as you did when you were younger and still growing into your shoe size.

“No, no, it's all okay. Really, John, I don’t mind. If we're being open here, _like I'm really hoping your Saturday is_ , I also really like your voice. Weird, but you actually _look_ like your voice, soft and handsome and sweet. Your voice is really nice, John, like really. I bet i could write a poem about it or something.” Alexander says this so nonchalantly, you can hear his smile, the small dimple he has on his cheeks. He continues on talking even after he says that, you're blushing and smiling wide, his voice a dream and being saved from trying to respond to such a compliment.

“-Anyways, back to the Saturday thing, right? So do you know if tomorrow, today really, I guess now, on Saturday you'll be open to checking out this cool restaurant that made my week. We on?” He sounds still vaguely distracted and yet determined.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah. Frances and I can go tomorrow. Are you gonna come over beforehand or do we meet up or. .?” Your voice is still rough from having recently, very recently, woken up but you are now hopefully coherent enough for him. His grin is _audible_ and your heartbeat quickens in your chest, pounding in your wrists and you almost drop your phone.

“Sweet! Okay, so I’ll see you in about, T-minus I’m not actually sure I have no idea what time it even is now.” You can hear him move the phone away from his ear, most likely checking the time. “Ah, okay so it may or may not be three something AM I feel, terrible waking you up now, alas it was, uh, for a good cause, I hope you can see that, my dear sweet and incredibly forgiving and not at all bothered John?”

You laugh, muffled behind your hand to keep the little princess asleep, but you can’t help the laugh.

“I _may_ have it within me to forgive you, we’ll just have to see over dinner. Get here before four and play with Franny while I clean up and you just might be forgiven.”

“Oh, I’ll be there, and early too, maybe earlier. And not _just_ to play with Franny.” _You can hear his wink and Oh God, this is fake, it has to be, it’s a dream, right?_

“I-I uh, I-I,I- o-okay, okay. Okay I uh, um yeah, yes. I look forward to it. Tell me about your wild day when I see you?”

“I’ll tell you the wild story and the amazing news _and more_ , just you wait, John Laurens.” And with that he hangs up, the line goes dead and the buzzing, ringing end tone plays in your ear. He’s gone and with that, you don’t think you’ll be able to sleep. He’s gone and he took the last remaining hours of sleep and you know you aren’t even the slightest bit put off by this or mad at him in the least. It’s probably the best three AM wake up since Frances woke you up last year to tell you about her loose tooth and how the ‘Tooth-Fairy’ left her a dollar and she’s gonna buy “a whole burger and nugget and soda and _oh, make it a whole sprite with all of the bubbles so her tummy can fly!_

Setting your phone back on your nightstand where it had previously laid, unused, you slide down your bed and move Frances along so she won’t be uncomfortable, laying her head down on your chest as she curled up into your side in her sleep. In a bit of a daze from talking to _the most amazing man_ , you slowly pull the thick blankets over the two of you, eyes staying glued on the ceiling as you do so.

Realistically, you know this isn’t a date. For starters, he most likely doesn’t like you, doesn’t like _men_ since not everyone is- No, no, it’s not _wrong_ , not disgusting just, odd? Whatever you should call it to dodge the shame that it built up in you your entire life, you’re fairly certain he doesn’t deal with such _temptations_ and _peculiar tastes_ as you struggle daily with. Furthermore, why would anyone have any feelings aside from disappointment and pity for you? Some tainted, sad, single father ‘mourning’ his ‘beloved wife’ whom he ‘loved dearly,’ isolating himself in some high-end apartment in Philly and taking checks from a somewhat absent yet absurdly rich father down in South Carolina. Who could fall for that, ask that mess of a man you see in the mirror out on some date to a new restaurant?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, I had plans to make this so much longer, with the actual "date but totally not a date but could possible be an unofficial date" and have Hammie share some Tea that isnt being served with a meal thatwasntsmoothatallimsosorry
> 
> But I am impatient with myself and so I just took the half that sounded finished enough without the angst and here it is
> 
> Also: heather lavender here stands for beauty, solitude, admiration, and wishes that will come true (take that and fly with it I'm not spoilin NOTHIN)


End file.
